


Weeptober 2020

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, whumptober 2020 but not officially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: One-shots inspired by (but not following the prompts of) Whumptober. Details inside.Whumpee names in chapter titles :)
Comments: 120
Kudos: 188





	1. Guilt (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny, after Matty's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I have to admit that I was not completely feeling the new format of Whumptober prompts (not to say that I'm not looking forward to reading what the rest of you do with them!) Combining that with the fact that I CANNOT get caught up in this for 6+ months again (lol) and I decided not to officially do Whumptober this year, but instead to do a smaller series of oneshots. I'll be naming the chapters with pseudo-prompt titles, just for ease of use. I'm aiming to complete ten this month, but we'll see! In any case, I hope you guys enjoy.

He’d come upstairs with the intention of resting, high and hidden, in Matty’s old bunk; but the second he’d closed their bedroom door, his legs had given out. So now he’s on the floor. Tucked up against the wall, between the door and the closet of his childhood bedroom that he honestly resented sharing. A lot of his friends had their own rooms. And there he was, sleeping five feet below his noisy kid brother who tossed and turned and snored loud enough to drown out the constant airplanes, even as a child.

The funeral had been— a funeral. Closed-casket, obviously. Bridget had said nice things that didn’t allude to how their brother had spent the last three years of his life on the run from a drug cartel. Instead she’d told stories about kids playing street hockey, kids on a day trip to Central Park.

She hadn’t cried. Stella had. Danny’d cried too, but just a couple stray tears that hadn’t felt like much.

Not sure about their parents. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at them, not even once.

Eric had been hysterical. Like, literally fucking hysterical, calm-down-before-you-puke kind of a thing, and so most of Danny’s time at the services had been spent on that, on hugging his nephew or alternatively making him sit with his head between his knees, and rubbing his back and hoping he didn’t actually black out and/or mess up their dress shoes.

In many ways Matty had been Eric’s brother as much as he’d been Danny’s. Splitting their age gap right down the middle, and his personality had made him younger.

In some ways, hell, he’d been _more_ of Eric’s brother than he’d been Danny’s. Two goofs roaming the streets together. And Danny had played shepherd to both of them, rounding them up when it was time for dinner.

He doesn’t know where Eric is. He should. He doesn’t know where Amber is. He should. But all he knows is that it’s too fucking hot in the house, even though it’s almost November, even though Hawaii’s gotten him pretty well used to heat, but crowded-house heat is a different beast and he’s got to get somewhere cooler or he’ll lose his shit.

Sorry, Amber. Sorry you dropped a literal grand to fly back to the coast you hate, play the perfect doting girlfriend who got more or less ignored the whole time.

He’s not mad at Amber for coming. He’d have to be the biggest dick around to be mad at her for coming. But he is in fact not-too-happy with Steve for not coming and he’s pretty sure those two things are at least loosely connected, so.

Because Steve had insisted, until he realized Danny’s girlfriend was going, and then there’d been a palpable backing-down. Because Steve’s an idiot. Because he’d clearly not wanted to step on any toes, but frankly Danny wouldn’t have minded if the whole damn team had flown out. He wouldn’t mind being at the middle of a group hug right about now. (Well actually he probably would, that sounds overwhelming, but they could take turns giving him one-on-one hugs, and that would be fine.

They could pass him around like a cigarette. One person to the next until he just burnt away.)

Amber had tried, more than once, to tug him aside, to give him his chance to fall apart. But all that did was reveal her fundamental misunderstanding of him, and his role in the family.

Fuck, he should be downstairs now. He should be with Eric now. But here’s the thing: he literally _can’t_.

He can’t even make it to Matty’s bed. Can’t even handle a five-foot ladder. Can’t do anything but huddle, hug his own knees, get tears on them, because he’s crying now. Maybe he was already crying, in the living room. Maybe that’s why he came upstairs. He can’t remember.

The room is more his than Matty’s. Always has been. He’s a dick that way, too. His posters, his trophies, his choice of wall color. He’s older, after all. Big brother. Third Parent.

Why didn’t he let Matty put up that Nirvana poster? It’d really make him smile, to see it now.

Fuck. He should know where Eric is. He should go find him. This is why he didn’t pull Grace out of school for the funeral. Knew all along he wouldn’t be able to manage. Bad enough he’s failing Eric. Honestly, he’s shit as far as being a Third Parent goes.

Obviously.

Obviously.

Five minutes, and he’ll go find Eric. Five minutes, get it all out of his system, and maybe he’ll do a better job there than he did with—

Oh, fuck. Fuck.

Might take more than five minutes to cry this thing out.

At the moment it sort of feels like he might never stop.

So he doesn’t answer the door, when he hears the knock. If it’s Eric, he doesn’t want the kid to see him like this. If it’s Amber, he doesn’t want her to see him like this.

Doesn’t want to see her, either, honestly. (Again, what a dick.)

So when the door opens he comes within an instant of reaching out and slamming it back shut.

But it’s not Eric. Or Amber.

With a soft grunt, an arthritic crack, Pop lowers himself to Danny’s side. Doesn’t say anything, not at first; just sighs quietly and leans back against the wall.

Danny’s held the same breath in, since the knock. Twenty seconds isn’t a long time to hold your breath, normally, but it is if you’re smack in the middle of a crying jag. So he lets it out. Sobs it out. Tucks back up and stops holding it in because it’s not Eric, it’s not Amber, it’s Pop, and Pop’s seen him cry before.

Knees to his chest, head to his knees. Lungs start throwing the tantrum they’ve been wanting to throw all day. Pop just sits. Doesn’t hug him, doesn’t even touch him really except that their hips are kind of brushing just because they’re sitting close.

He’s as bad off as Eric was now. Might mess up his own dress shoes. In Colombia, in that basement, he’d vomited for the first time in decades, and Steve hadn’t teased him for breaking his streak because Steve’s not actually an asshole, and he’d just seen his little brother’s corpse so it was a pretty acceptable reaction but the fact of the matter is that it’s been over a week and he’s still only keeping down about half his meals. He’s got permanent puke-breath, at this point. No matter how much he brushes. The only reason he didn’t have to use an airsickness bag on the plane was that he’d emptied himself out in a handicap stall at Honolulu International, then again on layover at LAX. He is a mess. He is a wreck. He is no longer a functioning person. He is no longer a human being.

Saliva’s collecting in the center of his lips, and there’s nowhere to spit it, but if he sucks it in and swallows it, his stomach _will_ fail him. It will. So it just sort of hangs there, quivering as he breathes, begging him to reach up and wipe his mouth but he can’t. Goddamn it, he can’t.

Saliva on his lips. Knees pressing bonily into his forehead, and his ass going numb because he’s too damn old to sit on the floor like this. Lungs aching. Belly hitching.

And a warm touch: fingers in his hair. And like a dam breaking, apologies spill from his mouth, discordant, incoherent, but Pop seems to hear him anyway.

“Danny, none of us blame you. None of us. Nobody. Understand me?”

He shakes his head. How the fuck could they not blame him?

Big brother. Third Parent. Let his little bother step onto a plane in 2011, and never again saw him alive. None of them did.

“Dannyboy,” Pop whispers. Which makes him shut up a little. Shit, it’s been a second since he heard that nickname. Hated it as a kid because Stella would sing the song in public. And hot damn Stella cannot sing. But he doesn’t mind so much now. At first he thinks it’s why it feels like he’s being hugged all of a sudden, but no, Pop’s got an arm around him, now.

“Your whole life you watched over him,” Pop murmurs. “You tried to carry everything for him. You carry everything for everyone. I can’t tell you not to. Never could. And I can’t tell you not to blame yourself for your brother. But what I can tell you is that I don’t blame you. Neither does your mother. Are you hearing me? We do not blame you.”

And then Pop hugs him closer, and suddenly he’s sort of half in his lap, head cradled in one arm, so that when he sobs he’s sobbing into the crook of Pop’s elbow. With his other hand, Pop’s stroking his hair again. And Danny just cries, harder than a person should rightly be able to, body convulsing, and the sounds he’s making are sharp, vocalized, like he’s speaking a real language, though it’s none he’s heard before.

“You brought him home,” Pop says again. And it sounds like he’s crying, now, too. “Dannyboy, that’s all I know. That’s all I need to know. You brought him home. You brought your brother home—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie didn’t have much of a role in my most recent story, so I figured I’d give him and Danny a moment like this.
> 
> Btw, this is the only explanation I will accept for Steve not going to the funeral with Danny. And even this, I have trouble accepting.


	2. Grief (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a text from Grace to come keep Danny company; what he finds isn't exactly what he expected. Set shortly after Grace's accident.

He gets the text from Grace just as he’s scrounging up some after-work clothes. Perfect timing. Coming up on dinner, so no matter how glum Danny’s feeling, at least food will serve to occupy for a while. To distract him from the memories he needs distracting from.

 _Hey Uncle Steve_ , Grace’s text had read; _nothings actually wrong but Dannos moping. Im going out with friends and its the first time since my accident… can you come keep him company?_

God, he loves his Gracie. Whatever her own state of mind right now— a ton of excitement and a healthy dose of apprehension, if Steve had to guess— she still finds time to worry about her dad. What a good kid.

So Steve finishes changing, belly-rubs Eddie goodbye, and head over to Danny’s.

Like his daughter, Danny’s been improving bit by bit since the crash. He’d been a wreck— obviously, and rightfully— pretty much until Grace had been discharged. Then fear had lessened to fretting. Shaking hands and sleepless nights lessened to hovering and massive pots of soup.

And as time passes, even this has been easing.

This will be more of the same, Steve expects. He can handle it. Danny will need a distraction; at worst he’ll need an outlet, and Steve’s happy to provide that in the form of one of their classic pointless arguments.

But as he arrives at Danny’s and lets himself in, Steve falters.

Because what he hadn’t counted on was Danny being— upset?

What he hadn’t counted on was Danny tucked up under a massive blanket in the corner of the couch, with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues. Eyes red, nose runny. Looking like nothing so much as a romcom protagonist, post break-up, and under other circumstances it might be funny.

Yeah… not so funny now.

“Hey,” Steve says; Danny just grunts, and doesn’t look over as Steve settles on the opposite end of the couch. “Gracie texted to—”

“Stop,” Danny interrupts, tightly. His voice suggests he’s been, y’know, _like this_ for a while. “You can shut up and watch the movie, or you can leave.”

Steve shuts up.

He’d come over expecting to order takeout; maybe segue that into a nice bitching session about Danny’s food preferences.

But if this is what Danny needs right now, well. Okay then.

The movie in question is one Steve doesn’t recognize, and he can’t help but take it as a bad sign. Just, he knows Danny’s catharsis movies. _Remember the Titans_ if he wants a manly, one-tear-per-cheek cry; _Forest Gump_ if he needs something stronger. This is neither of those. It’s well underway, so the finer plot points are hazy, but the overall story is definitely about a kid dying of cancer.

Oh, Danny. Danny Danny Danny.

Steve starts out in his typical position: legs stretched before him, arm over the back of the couch. Before long, though, he elects to mirror his friend instead. So he pulls his feet up onto the middle cushion and hugs himself loosely, angled towards Danny (but not actively staring, of course).

If the guy needs quiet company, Steve can give that. It’s not quite what he’d expected; but this is Danny’s show, so Steve will do as he’s directed. Shut up, hunker down. Sit in silence, watch the movie.

Which, holy shit, turns out to be even sadder than expected. Between it, and the sound of Danny crying, it’s not long before Steve finds himself getting emotional, too. He doesn’t fight it. Just lets the tears well up and, when they’re ready, lets them spill; for a couple of minutes they run down his face uninterrupted, until Danny notices and foists the tissue box on him. Then he tugs out a few, and blots the wetness away.

And it’s maybe a little embarrassing, but it feels good too; like draining an infection, crying eases some unseen pressure. Steve keeps quiet, but otherwise lets himself go for it.

There was a time that he would’ve taken a bullet before shedding a tear in another man’s presence. No; in another _human’s_ presence. But now he sniffles, and shares Danny’s tissues, and lets their feet touch on the center cushion.

He hasn’t been doing great, either, truth be told. He’d just started picking himself back up, from losing Joe, when Grace had had her accident. And he had been terrified. But he’d kept it together, of course, hadn’t let Danny see; rattled as he’d been, that was, unequivocally, a time to think of the Williamses first and think of himself as a very distant second. And it’s been over a month, and this hasn’t changed.

So okay, honestly, maybe he’s needed a tearjerker movie night, too.

He weeps in silence, until the credits roll. Then Steve allows himself one quiet sob before he takes a deep breath, scrubs his face, and powers down the TV. Calmer now, he glances at Danny—

And finds him not calmed in the slightest. Eyes still streaming, face still scrunched, arms still clutching his own waist.

“Want a hug?” Steve offers, softly.

All this earns him is a tight shake of the head.

“You wanna talk now?”

Same response. And it’s not that Steve starts crying again; but he sighs, and sniffles, not entirely put back together yet.

“Are—?” Danny clears his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” The noise comes before Steve can stop it, because, hello, that’s kind of a backwards question. One of them is leftover-teary. The other is actively weeping, probably has been for an hour or more now. One of them is tired, a bit worn-out. The other is holding himself in both arms like he’s been flayed, and willpower is the only thing keeping his insides in.

One of them almost lost a niece. One of them almost lost a daughter.

And with sudden clarity, Steve knows what he needs to do. What Danny needs him to do.

 _Are you okay?_ Danny had asked.

“No,” Steve replies, with a smile. “I’m not, really.”

Danny’s instantly more alert. He shifts to put himself in a more attentive position, though Steve’s not sure it’s done consciously.

“I haven’t really been sleeping.” Steve shrugs. “It was getting better, then it got bad again. I’ve just been on edge, y’know? Since Gracie’s accident. And it’s not— it’s not that I feel like, if I relax, something bad will happen. It’s not that. It’s more like— if I relax, I’ll remember all the bad things that have happened. Or could have happened. But you can’t avoid thinking about it forever, right?”

Danny nods.

“Not the first time I’ve cried about it.” Steve smiles weakly, gestures towards his face. “Stuff turns out okay, but— all that emotion, that was building up, it doesn’t— it doesn’t dissipate. The fear. The sadness— the grief, already, like you’re building it up. Making sure you’ll have enough, when it’s time, if it’s time. Like a stockpile. Because how could you ever have enough? But it’s not a pile of rations you can toss, y’know? It’s real. Real fear. Real grief. There’s nothing not real about it. It doesn’t go away just ‘cause we got a happy ending. So you either carry it around or you find a way to let it out.”

Danny’s wearing the same rapt expression that Charlie does during a bedtime story. Everything in his posture asks, _what happens next?_

“When you were shot, last winter,” Steve continues, “we already knew you’d be okay. You were out of the woods. But. Lou drove me home and, man, I just— I went in the shower, y’know, for some privacy, and I just cried my eyes out. Like, ten, fifteen minutes solid. Just bawling, okay? Because all that grief and fear and anxiety, it had to come out. It has to come out.” It takes a second, but Steve manages another smile. “It’s okay. Grace is okay. But I’m still so sad, and scared. I’m so scared I feel sick. I could scream. I’m a mess. I sit up at night. It gets to be so much I can’t even move sometimes. I can hardly breathe. To think we might’ve lost her— Danny, we’ve lost so many people already. I don’t know what I would have done, if we’d lost her.”

And Danny tips, without fanfare, over the edge from tears to real sobs. He buries his face in his hands, and what follows is so strident, so raw, that Steve has to fight not to cover his ears. Instead he moves to sit beside him, manhandles him they’re curled towards one another. Rests his chin on the nape of Danny’s neck and lets his own tears continue in silence.

“She’s okay, Danny,” Steve whispers, hugging tightly. “She’s okay. Take your time. You’ve got time, now.”

And Danny must take this to heart, because he cries for a long, long time. Steve just keeps rubbing his back, keeps murmuring, like a litany: “She’s okay. Grace is okay. It’s over. She’s okay.”

“Okay,” Danny whispers, at some point. It sounds less like conscious agreement and more like a simple of echo of sounds. He turns his face to the side, wipes drool from his chin. “Okay,” he repeats, resettling so his head rests on Steve’s shoulder instead of his chest.

“You doin’ okay?” Steve prompts, after a few more minutes. He steals one hand back to dry his own cheeks of itchy, cooling tears.

Danny’s voice is soft and low: a rumble. “Head hurts.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“‘n m’stomach. ‘m a mess.”

Steve nods. He himself has sludged through this sort of aftermath before; catharsis helps, but it takes just about everything you’ve got left. “Let me up,” he requests, quietly, “I’ll get you some water.”

“’n a minute.”

“Okay. You want anything else? Want some food?”

“’d get sick,” Danny whispers, sounding miserably sure of this.

“Okay. How much of that wine did you have? Out of curiosity.”

This earns a snort of soft laughter. “Like two sips. This’s just— all-natural, organic breakdown.”

“Hear you,” Steve promises, patting Danny’s shoulder before maneuvering him upright. “Sit tight, man.”

But Danny doesn’t. Steve has barely had time to gulp down some water, let alone get his friend a glass, when Danny shuffles into the kitchen behind him. Without ceremony he shoves a fistful of used tissues into the trash. Then he gets a glass, fills it, drinks it all, then fills it again. He stands staring into the water’s surface, mesmerized.

“You should go to bed.”

“Mm.” Danny frowns. “’s her first time out, since. Should be up to— ask her about it—”

“I’ll stay. Huh?” Steve rests a hand warmly on Danny’s back. “I’ll ask her all about it. And— what time is she supposed to be home by?”

“’leven.”

“If she’s not home by quarter past, I’ll wake you up. Okay?”

Danny’s too tired to argue aloud, but the disagreement is in his eyes. Steve hasn’t moved his hand; he squeezes a little, now.

“Listen. Okay? You look like actual shit, Danny.”

And the thing of it is, he does. That’s not a negotiation tactic. Danny’s eyes are swollen, the whites of them dull; his nose and cheeks are pink as though with fever. The damp-basement smell of grief clings to his skin and clothes.

“You don’t want her to see you like this tonight,” Steve adds, voice quiet now.

“Mm.”

“Sleep. Please? Go sleep. You want me to come lie down with you?”

Another quiet hum, then Danny clears his throat. “No. Stay down here— ‘case she comes home early.”

“You got it, buddy.”

“Wake me up, if she’s not home by ‘leven-oh-five. ‘kay?”

Tired as he also is, Steve can’t fight the smile. “Eleven-oh-five. Get you anything?”

Danny shakes his head. Pulls away from Steve’s hand and makes his shuffling way out of the kitchen, taking his water with him.

He hasn’t been upstairs five minutes before the front door unlocks. Gracie’s beat her curfew by almost half an hour, and Steve smiles again as he rises to greet her with a hug. They squeeze tightly an extra moment before pulling away.

“Danno’s in bed?” Grace asks, as they sit together on the couch.

“Yeah. He wanted to stay up for you. But he was so tired, I wouldn’t let him.”

She bites her lip. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” Steve promises. “He’s— worn down. But he’s okay. I’m glad you called me, Gracie.”

“What’d you guys do?”

“Quiet night. Just a movie. Couple of good hugs,” he adds; it's not exactly the truth but it's not a lie, either. Grace smiles.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“Thanks for asking me to.” He stands, and the flicker in his niece’s eyes would have changed his mind— if he hadn’t decided to stay already. She doesn’t want to be alone right now. Which is perfect, because Steve doesn’t either. “Want some hot chocolate? You can tell me ‘bout tonight?”

“That sounds amazing.”

“Come on. I got a recipe.”

She trails him into the kitchen, peeks over his shoulder as he gathers his ingredients: milk, sugar, cocoa, vanilla. A small pad of butter, which makes Grace laugh.

And as he mixes it, over the heat of the stove, the last of Steve’s own anxieties finally drain away. Grace is here. Grace is going to be fine, and so is Steve, and so is Danny. And if any of them needs to not be fine, for a little while? That’s fine too.

The hot chocolate’s ready. Steve pours it equally between two mugs, then watches fondly as Grace douses both in whipped cream before claiming hers. She carries it carefully back to the couch. And Steve sends a quick text before joining her.

 _In case you cant hear_ , he types, _Gracies home. Shes good. Were having hot chocolate_.

And though he’d been hoping Danny was asleep, the instant reply makes him smile nevertheless.

_Feeling okay?_

_Feeling fine. Had a good time._

_Give her a hug for me_ , Danny replies, and though Steve texts back to acknowledge, the messages end there.

So Steve takes his own mug, and joins his niece in the living room. Settles in to sip his hot chocolate and hear about her evening; as one floor above them, their Danno is (hopefully) getting some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to organize so I didn't post the same character back-to-back... oh well. Guess I've been in a Danny mood.


	3. Toothache (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a toothache. Danny worries too much, but dotes just the right amount.

Steve once told him that he actively seeks out opportunities to worry; and okay, so maybe he does. There’s a lot to worry about. And even if there _weren’t_ , he’d find something, but there’s _plenty_ , so.

Yes, Danny worries.

When Lou brings malasadas and Steve doesn’t have one, Danny worries.

The first path he heads down is that Steve’s stomach is upset. Between radiation sickness and the side-effects of his liver meds, Steve’s got kind of a delicate digestive system now; turning down donuts could mean it’s one of _those_ days. Only, he hasn’t had one of _those_ days in a while. So then Danny worries that Steve needs his meds rebalanced, or, worse, that the spells are coming back; until he realizes, eventually, that Steve’s drinking coffee.

So, his stomach’s fine. Time for round two.

The second path he heads down is that Steve’s losing his appetite to grief, again. That’s something that Danny’s watched him struggle with, too. In the weeks after Doris’ death, Steve had dropped noticeable weight; the same thing happened after Joe, and after retrieving Freddie’s body. But then Steve laughs at a joke that Tani tells. Not just a courtesy laugh, either; he really seems to find it funny.

So, mental health, okay for now.

So then Danny worries that maybe Steve’s starting to take that cholesterol thing seriously again, and take all the fun stuff out of his diet. And no, that wouldn’t technically be a bad thing. Except for the fact that Danny is still staying at Steve’s house, and therefore he’d have to take all the fun stuff out of his diet, too.

To this theory, Danny finds no refutation. In fact Steve’s lunch seems to support the notion: instead of a massive sandwich, apples with peanut butter, and a couple granola bars, Steve eats—

Two bananas. And a shit-ton of applesauce.

No, that’s not right. Steve’s lifestyle is beyond active, and he’s a tall, solid guy; even if he’s watching what he eats he still needs _way_ more calories than that.

Steve himself seems to agree. When he’s scraped the last of the applesauce out of the jar— yes, he brought a whole jar— he plunks the empty container on his desk and glares at it a while. Keeps this eye contact while he leans back in his chair. Frowning, rubbing absently at a spot maybe halfway up the right side of his jaw.

Oh.

Steve’s not eating because he’s got a goddamn toothache.

Holy shit, Danny really is going to worry himself to death one of these days.

He slides forward a little, to perch on the edge of Steve’s couch. “How long have you had that?”

“Mm?” Steve replies, automatically; but it takes less than a second for him to see that Danny’s caught on. “Oh. Uh. Couple days, but it got bad last night.”

“Bad?”

“Bad enough,” Steve admits, with a shrug.

Scale of one to ten is not a valid measurement with Steve; Danny’s witnessed on multiple occasions that Steve’s only answers are _three or four_ and _sixish_ , which mean, respectively, _yes this hurts_ and _I’m in agony_. But he’s worked out his own metric, over the years.

“Noticeable or distracting?”

Steve rubs his jaw again, with the look of a man who knows he’s about to damn himself. “Distracting,” he huffs, briefly meeting Danny’s eyes.

“Okay. Goodbye.”

“Huh?”

“Goodbye. Go. Dentist. Now.”

“Made an appointment Saturday morning.”

It’s Wednesday.

“Call the office.” Patiently, Danny mimes a telephone. “Say, hello, I made an appointment for Saturday, but I’m in a lot of pain. Can you fit me in today? And they’ll say, yes, we do emergency appointments, that is indeed a thing that we do, come in at such-and-such.”

Steve’s scowling now, kind of lopsidedly. Have his expressions been this asymmetrical all day? How has Danny not noticed? How did he not notice the lesser pain when it first started? He’s a damn detective, and, okay, they haven’t had breakfast together this week (they don’t always) but they _always_ eat lunch together…

Steve’s sigh brings Danny back to reality, and the setting-down of his phone clearly says he’s done with the call already. “So?” Danny prompts.

“They can see me at three.” Steve looks mostly relieved but maybe a little annoyed that Danny was right.

“Amazing. It isn’t it amazing, how that works?”

“Mm. Well, good. I’m fucking _hungry_.”

“Could do smoothies? It’s yogurt, it’s fruit. C’mon,” he adds, because Steve apparently needs coaxing. “We’re going for smoothies. Cold’ll help too. And it’ll pass the time.”

Steve’s smile is just as lopsided as his scowl was.

*

Steve’s done before 4:00, but, somewhat amazingly, he doesn’t return to the office; instead he texts Danny to say he’s swinging by the pharmacy then heading home.

By the time Danny arrives, Steve’s already in comfy clothes. He’s in the backyard, playing with Eddie, and waves through the kitchen window while Danny unloads his groceries. With his typical sense of timing, he doesn’t appear ‘til everything’s been put away.

“How’d it go?” Danny prompts.

“He says I gotta get it taken out.” Steve all but rolls his eyes. “Had a root canal on it a few years ago, but apparently that didn’t do the trick. The whole tooth is just dead now. He said it’s just, like, two big splinters.”

“When’s your appointment?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Why so far?”

“I guess the infection’s pretty bad. They want me to do a course of antibiotics before they do anything.”

“How bad is it?”

But the question only gets him a grin. “It’s nasty enough. You wanna see?”

“I don’t want to peer into your fucking mouth on the best of days,” Danny replies, waving Steve away as he approaches, wiggling one eyebrow. “No, I’ll kick you. I mean it. I’m making dinner, leave me alone.”

Steve huffs. “Man, am I hungry. But it even hurts if I chew too much on the _other_ side, y’know?”

“Mm,” Danny hums. “Good thing I’m making you soup, then.”

Steve looks a bit more touched than the situation warrants, and for a moment Danny thinks he’ll hug him. He doesn’t. What he does do it post himself on the counter and watch the proceedings with a goofy, slightly swollen smile.

Soon the kitchen smells like celery, onions, and butter. Danny chops the carrots, too, and adds them earlier than normal so they’ll be nice and mushy. “Also,” he notes, as the thought occurs to him, “what time Thursday? I’ll, uh, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t have to drive yourself.”

“It’s just local anesthesia,” Steve replies, looking slightly perplexed. “I’ll be able to drive.”

“You ever had a tooth pulled?”

“No.”

“Well, it sucks. Even if you _can_ drive, y’know, maybe you want someone else to take you.”

“You can come,” Steve consents. “But I’m driving.”

Which is absolutely not the point, but Danny says nothing. It’s taken Steve a while, to learn how to ask for company; Danny’s hardly going to dissuade it.

“You’ve never had a tooth pulled?” he says instead, guiding them back around. “Not even wisdom teeth?”

“Don’t have wisdom teeth.” Steve shrugs. “Born without ‘em.”

“The— the possible responses there are just endless,” Danny moans, rubbing his forehead as he tries to sort through the onslaught of insults.

“It’s evolution, actually. Being born with no wisdom teeth. Humans don’t need them anymore. So. You know. Who’s the Neanderthal now?”

Danny gives up, and goes back to making the soup.

*

So, okay, there’s nothing seriously wrong. For a change. Steve has a toothache, and (although Danny doesn’t like to think about the combination of infection and immunosuppressants) there’s a 99.99% chance he will be absolutely fine.

That doesn’t mean, though, that it’s awesome to have a toothache. Steve’s metabolism is just not meant to be fueled by broth and mushy veggies, and by bedtime he’s a walking Snickers commercial. A protein shake and cup of yogurt don’t help. It’s visible, how much he wants to _chew_ something, to actually sink his teeth into it, but that’s the last thing he needs at the moment.

He stalks off to bed, much earlier than usual.

Danny makes himself a plate of cheese and crackers, once the coast is clear, and falls asleep watching a sitcom Steve doesn’t like.

It’s the dead of night, when footsteps wake him. They cross through the living room and into the kitchen; then, through the doorway Danny sees the slight glow of the fridge being opened. Poor Steve. Maybe they could stick a steak in the blender? Danny gets up, and wanders over to suggest it.

But Steve, it turns out, has not gotten up for a midnight snack. It’s dark in the kitchen, but there’s enough light from the stars (aka light pollution) outside for Danny to see him clearly; see him, leaning heavily on the island, something bulky held to his cheek.

“How’s it feelin’?” Danny prompts, leaning beside him.

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“I miss Advil,” Steve grumbles. “Tylenol doesn’t do shit.”

“You’ll feel better once the antibiotics kick in. Uh. You want— I dunno, I could run out, get some of that gel stuff? Don’t laugh,” he adds, when Steve does. “It’s the only way Grace could sleep sometimes, when she was teething.”

“You’re fussing.” Steve adjusts the ice against his jaw.

“I’m not fussing.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s also _utterly_ unnecessary.”

“Fine.” A pause. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Nah.” Steve sighs. “I couldn’t.”

“Wanna go sit out?”

“Nah. ‘s no big deal.”

Huh. Interesting response. There was a time that they’d sit out on the beach in any free moment; that it didn’t mean _big deal_. Danny wonders when it became this way. Wonders if it’s because so many things are a big deal, these days.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Danny offers, instead.

That, apparently, is much more acceptable. So two minutes later they’re on the couch, and _Raiders_ is on the TV, and Eddie is curled up on the carpet nearby.

Danny’s not sure if Steve sleeps. But he himself does, with his feet in Steve’s lap; so if there’s nothing else, there’s that.

*

The antibiotics have kicked in by the next day at dinner. Steve doesn’t exactly dine on baby back ribs, but Danny makes pasta and he handles that without issue.

By the weekend he’s back to normal. The fact of the matter is that Steve takes fistfuls of pills anyway, so three tabs of amoxicillin a day just sort of blends in with the rest.

They work some cases. Surf. Run errands. Normalcy is pleasant, though it makes Danny forgetful; and on Wednesday night, he’s momentarily confused when Steve reminds Lou that they’re _available for emergencies only_ tomorrow.

Oh, right. Tooth-pulling time.

(When Danny remembers he spends a moment chuckling at Steve’s phrasing, and the image of him leaping up mid-pull, numb and bleeding, because they caught a case. Still wearing the little dental bib, probably.

It’s not actually hard to imagine.)

The appointment’s not until 11:00, so they sleep in a little Thursday morning. Then Steve goes for a swim, while Danny runs out to the store. Thing is, they need to be more prepared this time, to keep Steve fed on a non-solid diet. Into the cart go bananas and protein powder. Stuff for from-scratch mashed potatoes (as well as a box of instant, just in case), two dozen eggs, a few jars of applesauce, and a shit-ton of pudding.

Should be enough for a couple of days. Hopefully.

Back home, he finishes unloading just as Steve comes downstairs from showering; it’s just about time, so they head out.

*

Steve drives there. That’s to be expected. But— two hours, and a lot of waiting-room rounds of Nonograms and Words with Friends later— Steve drives home.

Absurd. Unnecessary. The guy has a mouth full of gauze and a fleck of blood beneath his chin; he can’t even speak to argue, and yet he still wins the argument.

Whatever. At least Danny is graciously permitted to go into the pharmacy on Steve’s behalf, pick up his prescription mouthwash and a second round of antibiotics. He gets some extra gauze, too. Almost gets a candy bar for himself, just to be a jerk, but he controls himself at the last minute.

It’s more fun being a jerk to Steve when he’s not in pain.

Because, that’s the thing, Danny muses, as he stares at the road out the passenger-side window. Steve _does_ feel pain. He does. He’ll even admit it. Danny’s seen him curse, and writhe, and even shed a tear in pain. No question, that he feels it.

It’s how he react when it’s over, that Danny has a hard time understanding:

He walks it off.

Most people soften with pain. Become skiddish, childish. Comfort-seeking. Even after the pain has ended, most people are left with the reaction of _wow, I’ve been in pain, I should wrap up in a blanket and drink something warm and watch a movie I know by heart_.

That’s just how pain works. It drains you; leaves you without your reserves, even if it doesn’t linger. You’re supposed to coddle yourself. You’re supposed to take a bath or curl up in bed or even just _let someone else drive you home_.

But no, not Steve McGarrett. Steve McGarrett drives himself home like nothing happened, like his biggest annoyance is that all the blood in his mouth makes it hard to hum along to the radio.

He makes a few little concessions, though. For one thing, as soon as they get home he goes upstairs and comes back wearing pajama bottoms. And he sits, too. Actually, that’s more than a little concession: he tucks up in one corner of the couch, ice pack in hand.

It’s a good start. This is a good start.

Danny adds the rest bit by bit.

He throws a blanket at Steve. Makes a show of lobbing it carelessly, so that Steve can shake his head and grumble, even as he spreads it over his lap. Then Danny gets a movie on. Settles on the opposite side of the couch, and invites Eddie to lie between them.

He lets a few minutes pass. Then he raises the idea of food; it’s way past lunchtime.

“Stocked up on baby food for you.”

Steve grunts.

“You doubt me. No, I got mashed peas, mashed sweet potato— that was Grace’s favorite— don’t laugh, I’m serious! No, I’m not serious. I got stuff for mashed potatoes, though.”

Another grunt.

“From scratch, to be clear. No? Protein shake? Pudding?”

“I’m not too hungry,” Steve mumbles.

“Okay. Is the, uh, amoxicillin upsetting your stomach?”

That earns him a literal eyeroll, good as any that his teenager can muster. “Is the amoxicillin—?”

“Don’t get defensive, it’s completely normal if it is. I was just gonna offer to make you peppermint tea.”

“I mean, I’d never turn down tea that someone else makes me. But,” Steve adds, “for the record, my stomach isn’t as sensitive as I think you think it is.”

“You want counterexamples to that statement?”

Steve mugs up at him, though effect is tempered by the ice pack still clutched to one cheek. “My stomach’s fine, thank you, Daniel. But now you put an idea in my head, so. Now I want tea.”

Now Danny rolls his eyes.

He’s on his feet in an instant, though. And a few minutes later he’s back, tea in hand; he passes it to Steve before settling back down. Waiting for the inevitably indignant reaction.

Steve gives the mug a happy little sniff before raising it carefully to his lips and drinking— then grimacing. “You’re not supposed to have anything hot,” Danny notes, earning himself a scowl.

“Think I could’ve tolerated at least lukewarm,” Steve grumbles, which, okay, dramatic. It’s more than lukewarm; It’s actually warm. It’s just not scalding, as Steve prefers it.

He keeps sipping it anyway.

The movie plays. Steve sits under his blanket and sips his tea; and after a while Danny actually thinks he might consent to napping.

Then he grimaces. Puts the mug aside.

“Bleeding again,” he grumbles. “Um—”

“Sit,” Danny orders, because that _um_ clearly meant _where’d I put the gauze_? So he gets it for him (from the kitchen island, right where he left it). Then he waits for Steve to wad up another length and shove it in his mouth before he sits again and prompts, “how’s it feeling?”

The logic, of course, was that Steve could only nod or shake his head now. But Steve, being Steve, shrugs.

“Right. Numb anymore?”

Steve shakes his head.

“And there it is. You need another ice pack?” Another response in the negative. “Sure? ‘cause I’m about to settle in, I don’t wanna get up again soon.”

Eddie’s back on the floor by now, leaving the center cushion free. Steve pats it by way of reply.

Now it’s Danny’s turn to shake his head. But he does so while moving, sliding over to resettle at Steve’s side, where he’s gifted with a corner of the blanket being draped across one thigh.

“Thanks,” Danny mutters. “Thanks for that. I’m not cold, and if I were, that would not help, okay?”

Steve just makes a lispy, contented sound. Then he tips sideways to rest his good cheek against Danny’s shoulder, and shimmies until he’s comfortably slouched.

And then he dozes off, still holding his ice pack in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit light-hearted in comparison, but. I had a tooth out this summer, so I had to impose this on one of the boys 😂


	4. Despair (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the moment he wakes up, he knows he’s not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mention of suicide, though only slight ideation

From the moment he wakes up, he knows he’s not okay.

It’s been a few days. And he’s been— functional.

Functional seems like a pipe dream right now.

The last of his grit gets him out of bed; his lovesickness gets his teeth brushed and his face washed, just so he’s not totally disgusting. Pitiful, maybe; _emotionally_ disgusting, maybe; but at least his breath won’t reek.

And that’s about it. That’s about all he’s got going for him, as he drags himself out to his car and gets himself to the only place that feels safe right now.

It’s still early, but Steve answers on the first knock. He’s dressed, hair damp; not looking great but looking human, at least.

That makes one of them.

“Jer?” Steve’s voice is kind of hoarse, but it’s steady. “You okay?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Jerry whispers, mostly just getting the consonant out; the vowel is bitten back as he tries not to sob.

“Okay,” Steve says. And then he’s taking Jerry by the arm and leading him inside; and Jerry closes his eyes, stops following the world for a bit.

When he opens his eyes, he’s sitting. There’s the sound of a mug being set on the end table, followed by the feeling of a well-loved blanket being draped around his shoulders. Steve smiles, settles beside him.

“How you feelin’?” he prompts, gently.

There’s no point in fudging the truth. “Awful,” Jerry croaks, tugging the blanket a little tighter around himself; it’s hardly cold but he needs a hug so badly he could cry. The blanket’s a reasonable stand-in.

“This is about Wednesday?”

Jerry nods, tightly, though it’s not really a question. What else would this be about? What else has happened recently that could have sent him into this— this _tailspin_ , this absolute walking-back of all the emotional progress he’s made since Five-0 adopted him?

Even Steve looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. Even their Navy SEAL has been hit with this; so how could a guy like Jerry not get _crushed_?

“There’s whiskey in that tea,” Steve murmurs. Jerry laughs a little; it sounds like shit. He takes the mug in both shaking hands and carefully sips, but not even the fact of _Steve McGarrett making him tea_ does much of anything.

The warmth against his palms is distantly nice, though.

By the time he sets the empty mug aside, at least his hands have mostly stilled.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Jerry replies; but can’t help adding, “it’s weird. At first I thought I was okay.”

“Yeah?”

“And then this morning, I woke up and I just wasn’t.”

“That was me yesterday,” Steve tells him, very, very softly. “Some things are big enough, they take time to sink in.” He huffs. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve given us off. I don’t think it’s helping, bein’ alone.”

Then his hand finds Jerry’s knee, and he squeezes lightly. “I’m glad you came over. ‘s smarter than I was yesterday.”

Something’s knocked loose. An instant later Jerry feels tears welling; he covers his face but doesn’t bother to turn away as he gives in, breaks down.

An arm settles around his shoulders. Jerry lets himself be drawn against Steve’s side, sobbing weakly as Steve brings up the other arm and hugs him close.

“’sokay, buddy,” Steve hums, scrubbing at Jerry’s back. Jerry tries to sniffle discreetly but ends up trapped in a helpless, snotty sniffle-fit instead, hitching and flinching in Steve’s arms, all but hyperventilating through his nose.

Steve, being Steve, is very calm about it. He moves his hand from Jerry’s back to the base of his neck instead, and squeezes there, fingers so gentle and the gesture itself so intimate that Jerry starts crying even harder.

Steve just holds on.

By the time it’s finished Jerry feels weak and shivery; his head is pounding and his stomach feels like he’s been riding roller coasters all day. He knows he should get up, blow his nose, wash his face. But the thing is that he _doesn’t feel any fucking better_ , despite crying his eyes out for, god, probably at least ten minutes, and the only thing keeping him on this side of oblivion is the feeling of Steve holding him. Caring about him, even just a bit.

So he doesn’t get up just yet.

And Steve doesn’t make him, either; though at some point he does sigh, and muss up Jerry’s hair. “How we doin’?”

Jerry swallows, sniffles, swallows again. Shakes his head.

“You wanna go put your feet in the water?” Steve offers, quietly. “Helps me, sometimes.” Jerry glances up and finds such sincerity in Steve’s eyes that he actually can’t handle it; and rather than bear it a second longer, he goes back to hiding his face in Steve’s shoulder.

“Come on, brother,” Steve says, brushing at Jerry’s hair again. “Come on. This ain’t helpin’, c’mon.” And very, very gently, he pulls Jerry from his hiding place, gets him to his feet and keeps him standing. Then he leads him out the back door, down the sand.

The sun, the salt air—they don’t feel good, exactly, but they do feel new; Jerry grabs onto this, trying to steady himself. Steve has not left his side. Now, as they stand with the ocean lapping at their ankles, he lays a hand on Jerry’s back.

And then Jerry’s speaking again, before he even knows he’s going to.

“Everything just seems so fucking hopeless.” The words tumble out all weepy and gasping, and riding their coattails are a few honest-to-god, out-loud sobs.

“I know.”

“And it’s like, whatever I do, it’s not gonna make a difference. And I’m so tired. I’m so fucking tired, and it feels like I will be forever. So why bother? Why get up? Why not just go the fuck back to sleep when you wake up in the morning? And just— stay there.”

“Because we usually do make a difference. It hurts, when we don’t; but we usually do.”

“I don’t,” Jerry tries, but it sticks. “I don’t know if that’s enough of a reason.”

“To get up?”

“Yeah.”

Steve seems to think on this a while. They stand in silence while he does. Jerry’s tears are just sort of leaking now, dripping sluggishly down his face; part of him forgets that he’s even crying.

Eventually the hand on his back presses a little.

“I’m trying to decide,” Steve says, “how worried I should be.”

“About me?”

“About you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not gonna kill myself. If that’s what you mean. So you don’t have to— worry that much, I guess.”

“You’re not really convincing me.”

“I don’t wanna die. I just— don’t wanna do anything else, y’know?”

“I know,” Steve replies. “Believe me, I know what that feels like.”

He’s shaking again. Steve moves closer, arm-around-shoulders now, instead of just hand-against-back. “I’m sorry.”

“I know it’s hard to believe this right now,” Steve whispers, “but you’ll feel better, sooner or later. You won’t feel like this forever. I promise.”

And even if he doesn’t trust the words, Jerry trusts Steve; and it gives him strength enough to wipe his nose, and take a steady breath.

“You’re gonna stay here today. Or if you wanna go home, I’m coming with you. I’m not leaving you alone right now,” Steve says; then, before Jerry can protest, adds, “whether or not I _could_. I’m not gonna.”

One steady breath has somehow become several. They’re a little too deep and a little too fast, but they’re not stuttering anymore, and for the first time in days it feels like he’s got enough oxygen.

Despair colors with the slightest hint of gratitude. Jerry stares into the ocean, feels Steve’s arm around him, and breathes.

And keeps breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened to on Wednesday? I have no idea. I wrote most of this when I was having a bad, bad day at some point this summer... never really intended it to have a plot 🤷🏼 Just needed some vicarious TLC.


	5. Weakness (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Been having night sweats. Bad. I just feel—” Steve shakes his head. “I just wanna shower.”
> 
> “Long time to be upright,” Danny notes, nonchalantly. “I could, uh. I could get you a— a chair—”
> 
> He falters. Steve hates nothing more than his own weakness. (Post 6x25)

It still doesn’t feel normal, sleeping at his own house; he wasn’t taking care of Steve, more like being taken care of along with Steve, but still.

And now he’s back home, but he’s not back to work yet, and—

Nope. He doesn’t like it.

And so within one damn hour of waking up, he’s in the car, grinding out the familiar path.

Steve’s okay. Well, he’s not _okay_ ; but he’s not going to die. At least not immediately. Which is, unsurprisingly, little comfort.

One peek won’t hurt. One glance. He’ll see Steve alive and breathing, and then he’ll go and take a nap on the couch or in the guest room.

He gets to Steve’s house. Parks, gets inside; doesn’t see Steve on the couch, so he shuffles upstairs to make sure he’s in bed.

But Steve’s not in bed.

Danny peers in just a little bit deeper, and sees the door to Steve’s en suite bathroom open, the light inside on.

He pauses. Because, recent trauma or no, Steve’s still gotta brush his teeth and piss and stuff, so, he has every damn right to be in the bathroom. And it’s en suite. He has every damn right to leave the door open, because nobody but him is supposed to be in his bedroom.

Danny makes it maybe two minutes before he lets himself in, and goes quietly to the bathroom.

Good news: Steve’s alive, and conscious.

More good news: Steve’s fully dressed, no caught-pants-down situations of any variety here.

Not-so-good news: Steve’s on the floor. Back to the wall, in easy lunging range of the toilet, looking pale and sweaty and generally miserable.

Danny leans against the doorframe. The answer seems obvious, but he asks the question anyway, not even bothering with a greeting first.

“Nausea’s bad again?”

Steve, surprisingly, shakes his head.

“Oh. ‘sit the other— y’know? Other door?” Another shake. “No? Just tryin’ to figure out why you’re camping out in here.”

“I need a shower.” Steve’s voice is like steel wool in Danny’s ears.

“You get dirty moving from the living room to the bedroom?”

Steve licks his lips. They’re chapped like it’s winter in Jersey; have been for a month now. “Been having night sweats. Bad. I just feel—” He shakes his head. “I just wanna shower.”

“Long time to be upright,” Danny notes, nonchalantly, finally seeing the root of Steve’s current misery. “I could, uh. I could get you a— a chair—”

He falters. Steve hates nothing more than his own weakness.

“Or you could take a bath,” he adds, feeling less sure now.

Steve breathes out. Shuts his eyes and leans his head back, and Danny realizes that right now shower versus bath is basically marathon versus 10k.

“Okay,” he whispers, gears turning. “Okay.” 

So he turns on the water, plugs the drain when it’s warm; then leaves Steve alone, just for a minute, to grab a few towels of various sizes and a Tupperware for rinsing. When he gets back, the tub’s at just the right level. So he shuts off the water, and holds a hand out to help Steve stand.

There’s no protest.

No embarrassment, no grouchiness or grumbling.

And it’s not that Danny wanted to argue about this, per se; but complacency is an uncanny look on Steve.

Oh well.

There’s only so many battles a guy can fight.

Steve gets his pajamas off without assistance, but holds both of Danny’s hands as he lowers himself into the tub. Still it’s a clumsy movement, and the water sloshes. Wetness seeps through one knee of Danny’s sweatpants; but though he notices, he doesn’t care.

How could he?

Before him, in a freaking bathtub, sits his best freaking friend, naked as the day he was born.

And he looks awful.

Exhausted. Depleted.

Ripped up and stitched back together— not far from the truth.

Danny smiles. Bops him on the shoulder.

“I won’t go below the waterline, huh? Unless you— y’know, unless you need me to—”

He’s not entirely sure either of them would ever come back from his literally cleaning Steve’s ass, but, hey. There’s been a lot of permanent changes in the past few weeks, anyway.

But Steve manages a half-glare. A sign of life for the first time in long minutes, and Danny smiles again and gets to work.

The Tupperware he snagged is a deep one. It holds a good amount of water, that he slowly, carefully, pours over Steve’s back and shoulders— cataloging injuries as he goes. The wound to his bicep has mostly healed. It’s left the tattoo there a bit worse for wear, but at least the skin is closed well.

The wound to his flank isn’t looking as good. It looks like— well, it looks like the exit wound of a bullet that shreds a man’s liver.

He’s not sure about the entry wound, or the surgical incision. They were both still scabby when he saw them last, maybe a week ago; but he didn’t catch a glimpse as Steve climbed in, and he can’t see them now. Steve’s folded up almost entirely. Elbows on knees, forehead on forearms; might look like a sulking kid if he weren’t two hundred pounds of tattoos and scars.

He doesn’t quite mean to. But Danny runs a finger down one of the scars, red and smooth; and Steve shivers. Goosebumps raise along his arms.

Danny adds a gush of hot water to the tub, and mixes it around, warming up the lot. Then he goes back to filling and pouring, wetting Steve’s hair now, too.

Slowly the goosebumps smooth out.

“Lemme get your front,” Danny mutters. There’s no response. Wondering if maybe Steve’s dozing, Danny lays a hand to Steve’s shoulder and coaxes him gently upwards.

Steve’s not dozing.

Steve has a very different reason for keeping his head down, and as Danny realizes, his heart cleaves primly in two.

Steve’s crying. Holy shit, he is _weeping_ — eyes red and glassy, lashes all glued together— and he’d cried a few times in the hospital, and once or twice since getting home, so maybe it shouldn’t be so shocking anymore— but, it is—

“It hurts?” Danny prompts, softly. Steve shakes his head.

“No, it—” His voice strangles, and he has to stop a minute. “Feels nice,” he adds, finally.

“Yeah?”

“It’s kinda been a while, since something felt nice.”

He smiles. More tears stream; they’re soundless, but so profuse that Danny can’t compare them to anything less than a child’s tears.

“Okay,” Danny whispers. He wets his hand and brushes them away, not trying to staunch the flow, just to clean the old ones before they turn itchy. “I’m glad. Huh? I’m glad.”

It’s the last they speak, for a little while. Steve stays upright, no longer trying to hide his face; and Danny just keeps going, dousing Steve’s chest now. This done, he grabs the soap and shampoo. Spreads shampoo over all of his fingers before working them into Steve’s hair, massaging circles into his scalp.

How long does it take to wash hair this short? Not long, to be sure. But Danny keeps going for a solid few minutes, until Steve’s head is enrobed in suds, until Danny’s starting to lose feeling in the tips of his own fingers.

“Lean your head back,” he prompts, eventually. Steve complies without speaking. Danny fills the Tupperware, then pours it over Steve’s hair, standing one hand along his hairline to keep stray suds from his eyes. Then he does it again. Thinks of a joke about how he doesn’t have any baby shampoo but it doesn’t matter because it’s too late for the no-tears thing.

He doesn’t make the joke, obviously. The look on Steve’s face, the contentment behind the grief, prompts him to stay quiet, and to rinse a few times more than he needs to.

Hair done, Danny goes for the soap. Wets a washcloth and works the bar over it until he’s got a good lather; then very, very gently, begins to scrub Steve’s skin. Shoulders, then back. Sides, then chest. Steve angles himself to accommodate. With his head tilted back, his tears follow a new path: streaming from the corners of his eyes, over cheekbones, meeting neck just below the ears. Then they’re lost, in the floodplane of bathwater.

Danny gets some more soap on the washcloth, then starts in on Steve’s arms. He massages as he goes. Tries to cleanse the muscles of tension just as much as he tries to cleanse the skin of sickly sweat.

Biceps. Elbows. Forearms. Wrists. Danny abandons the washcloth now. Steve’s hands seem just about the only visible part of him that isn’t battered; so Danny works them a little harder, rubbing deep at the mounds below Steve’s thumbs, pushing one by one up Steve’s fingers.

It’s the only time Steve makes a sound. An open-mouth whimper, reverence marked with anguish, it slips out just as a fresh swell of tears comes spilling down his cheeks.

And then that’s all. Danny’s done all he can; washed all he can reach. He pulls the drain. Holds Steve by both arms as he gets him standing, lets the shower head rinse any stray suds. Keeps holding on as Steve steps out. Helps him brace against the wall, and lets go only to dry him and wrap a towel around his waist.

Then Steve sits on the edge of the tub, breathing wetly. From here Danny can see his transplant scar perfectly; twin to the scar on his own abdomen, which pulls a bit as he crouches down to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Should I bother?” he asks, at last.

“Hm?”

“Washing your face, should I bother?”

Steve laughs. He gives a real, honest laugh, then sniffles hugely. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“You’re done?”

“I’m done.”

So the last thing Danny does is dampen a fresh washcloth and wipe down Steve’s face. Soap it just a little, with his fingers. Then make a few more passes with the cloth, until all the soap is gone.

True to his word, Steve’s face stays dry.

“You all right?” Danny prompts.

“Yeah.”

“Really all right?”

“I feel better,” Steve promises, and it sounds like he means it. “Hey. I feel better, Danny.”

“Okay,” Danny sighs. Then keeps sighing, until his lungs finally let go the extra air they’ve been hoarding. “Okay. I am beat.”

“Me too.”

“Guess you didn’t sleep too good last night?”

Steve laughs. “I did not.”

“Wanna watch a movie? By which I mean, take a nap on the couch?”

“Don’t think I can walk downstairs,” Steve replies, without preamble.

“Okay.” Danny nods. “Netflix on your laptop?”

The thing is, he doesn’t want Steve more than arm’s length away from him; and short of actually saying hey let’s cuddle, watching a movie together seems the most plausible way of going about this.

Steve nods. “I’ll be right there.”

“You don’t need—?”

“No, I can walk that far. I— I need a minute 'lone, though,” Steve admits, smiling tiredly. “I gotta blow my nose, I gotta—” And he gestures towards himself, drawing his fingertips together like he’s closing something off.

“Okay. I mean, I should probably change your sheets anyway. If they’re as sticky as you were twenty minutes ago.”

“Yes, please,” Steve murmurs.

So Danny leaves him be. Goes back into the bedroom and swaps out the linens as promised. A few minutes later, the bathroom door shuts. And Danny glances up in time to watch Steve get to the closet and shrug into fresh pajamas, seemingly without issue. Then he’s climbing into bed, lying down with a breath of relief.

Danny chuckles. He swaps his wet clothes for some of Steve’s, then perches on the edge of the bed.

“Where’s your laptop?”

Steve mutters something that doesn’t quite sound like words, and turns his head a little more towards Danny.

“Ah. So, are we just sleeping then? We’re not even setting up a pretense?”

Steve shakes his head, then goes still. So Danny shuts the light off, draws the shades as best as he can, and climbs in beside him.

In the semi-dark, clothes hiding his wounds, Steve almost looks normal. Still it’s impossible to ignore that it’s a weekday mid-morning, and he’s laid up in bed, too weak to go downstairs let alone to go to work.

He’ll get better. He’s _getting better_.

But today he is, apparently, somebody who can’t even bathe himself; somebody who hasn’t felt anything but pain for a month now.

 _It’s kinda been a while, since something felt nice_ , he’d said.

Remembering this, Danny moves a bit closer, and takes Steve’s hand.

He wonders if he should say something. But in the end he just laces their fingers and squeezes.

He knows; he knows how much Steve needs to hear affirmations aloud. He knows that Steve needs to hear _I love you_ ’s to really believe them, and even then he might not. But what’s in him right now feels too raw, too tender for words.

And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Maybe it should only matter what Steve needs right now; but also, maybe not. Because a month ago his best friend almost died. A month ago Danny was cut open to save his life, and that wasn’t too big an ask, it could never have been too big an ask, but it does mean that he has his very own scar to pull him back, back to that cockpit, right back to the very worst moment of his life.

So fuck it, this isn’t just about Steve’s needs.

Fuck it; if he’s too tired to say _I love you_ out loud, Steve’s gonna have to learn to hear it in other ways.

But from the look on his face, Steve’s heard it just fine today.


	6. Fever (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's sick. And instead of riding it out at home like a normal person, he is, apparently, holed up in a crappy motel. Danny comes to the rescue.

Danny’s begun drifting, by the time his phone rings; very briefly, he entertains the idea of not answering it. The four of them have been pulled in ten directions each, all day. The last time he saw Chin, Kono was dragging him to the ER for stitches; the last time he saw Steve, honestly, must have been early morning. It’s been a long damn day, in other words. So when Steve’s face pops up on his phone, Danny groans— but he does, of course, answer.

“Go,” he grunts, too tired for more than that.

The response is equally terse. “I need a favor.”

Steve’s voice sounds so awful that Danny is startled out of his instinctive sarcastic response.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“You sound like shit.”

Steve hums, acknowledging this.

“Are you—?”

“I need you to go to my house,” Steve interrupts, “pick something up, and bring it to me.”

“Okay.” Danny’s reply is automatic; he’s still too shocked for it to be anything but. “What am I bringing?”

“Master bathroom. Under the sink, there’s a— a dark green toiletry bag.”

A joke, about Steve being too insecure to shave with Cath’s razor, dies on Danny’s tongue as Steve adds: “and don’t tell Doris why you’re there. Okay?”

“Where are you?”

Steve names one of the most mediocre motels in Honolulu, and Danny sighs. “Leaving now,” he promises.

The line disconnects.

Danny allows himself exactly thirty seconds of internal grumbling before he rolls out of bed, shoves on some flip-flops, and goes. Is he worried? Yes. Is he so tired that he’s maybe less worried than he should be?

Who knows. Steve is Steve, and if he’d given the same instructions in his typical self-assured manner, this whole damn thing would be almost normal.

But— he didn’t. In fact, he sounded like shit. So it’s not normal. And yes, Danny elects to worry a little bit more.

The actual pick-up is easy. Doris is nowhere to be found, so that’s good (not that Danny doubted his own ability to cold-shoulder her). He goes up to Steve’s room, finds the toiletry bag, and locks the door behind himself as he leaves.

The motel Steve’s crashing at is only about twenty minutes away from his house. This, in and of itself, raises more questions, as Danny pulls up to the room Steve texted. Adrenaline’s made his head a bit clearer now. In their two-point-something years of acquaintance, Steve’s gotten himself mixed up in more plotlines than Danny can even remember now. So which one of these has led them here, to a crappy motel, with an anonymous bag clutched tight in Danny’s hand?

Shit. Privacy or no, he should’ve just _looked_ in it. But this doesn’t occur to him until he’s already knocked.

The door opens.

Steve peers at him from the darkness of the room, looking like absolute garbage; his eyes are dull, underlined in purple, and his cheeks are flushed as though with fever. The blanket around his shoulders only adds to the aesthetic.

“Thanks, Danno,” he croaks, taking the bag without delay. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me? You owe me an explanation. You wanna give me one of those, we’ll call it even.”

“’m sick,” Steve replies. Which, okay, _obviously_. And he hasn’t just caught a cold, either. He looks _sick_ sick— maybe not _get to the ER right now_ kind of sick but _please tell me you made an appointment first thing tomorrow_ kind of sick.

“This I can see,” Danny sighs. Steve’s retreating into the room; without waiting for an invitation, he closes the door and follows. “How sick is sick? You got a fever?”

“Mm.”

“You get hurt today? If you’re hiding an infected stab wound again, so fucking help me—”

Steve offers a shaky smile. He’s back on his bed by now— he’s pilfered the blankets from the other one as well, Danny notes— and is unzipping the green case with trembling fingers. “Not hurt. Just a bug.”

“Mm-hm. Tell me I broke into your house for your special Army Advil.”

“Something like that,” Steve replies. Then he takes a pill, dry-swallowing; Danny tries to read the label on the bottle, but he doesn’t catch it in time.

“ _Something_ like that. Something _like_ that. It’s eleven o’clock, on a Friday night, after a horrible week, and this is the thanks I get for being dragged out of bed?”

“I said thanks,” Steve points out. “Then you started ranting, but, I did say it.”

“And I said, that if you consider yourself at all in debt to me for this, I’d like to be paid by you telling me what the fuck is going on.”

“Um.” Steve sighs. “I have— malaria.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees, “but it’s not gonna kill me either.”

Danny feels his heart skip a beat. “You’re serious?”

Steve nods. “Caught it about five or six years ago. Sometimes, the drugs, they don’t knock it out completely. You can get these recurrences, these flares, down the line. This is— I think the third time, for me. It can happen when you’re stressed,” he adds, with a humorless smile.

Oh.

Oh, shit, he’s really not kidding.

“Should you be in the hospital?”

“If the fever gets bad enough. But, this should get it under control before that happens.” He rattles the bottle in a shaky hand. “So, _thank you_ , again.”

Unbelievable. “Run this by me again, please,” Danny begs. “You’re having a flare-up of fucking malaria, this horrible, this famously horrible disease, but it’s not a big deal.”

“I’m not saying it’s not a big deal. But I’m lucky enough to have access to antimalarials. And I’m lucky enough to have a partner who’s willing to bring them to me at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. Thanks again.”

Danny rolls his eyes, as this third thank-you makes it all too clear that Steve isn’t showing him gratitude so much as showing him the door. Or, in other words, actually thinking Danny’s about to leave him alone.

He plops onto the other bed, to make a statement of his own.

For a few minutes, there’s silence.

“Do these antimalarials work better in a two-star motel room?” Danny asks, eventually.

“Didn’t realize it was a flare, ‘til I got this headache.” Steve sounds more exhausted than ever, now. “Thought it was just the flu or something.”

“Irrelevant. I don’t get it. You have a house; you have a nicer house than me. And you’re convalescing in an off-brand Days Inn?”

Steve frowns in thought; though Danny suspects he’s not thinking about his reasoning so much as deciding whether or not to share it. Evidentially, he decides in the affirmative.

“I didn’t really feel like being around Doris,” he says, evenly.

“Ah. She’d hover?”

Steve barks with laughter. “Danny, have you ever met my mom? I just— didn’t want her to see me sick.”

The balance between annoyance and compassion shifts, for the first time all night. Because, _Jesus_. The first time Danny’d gotten sick in Hawaii, he’d wanted his mom so badly that there had been literal tears. And he’d just had strep or something.

“You know that’s not healthy, yeah?” Toeing his shoes off as he speaks gives Danny the perfect excuse not to force eye contact. “Why didn’t you come over to my place? Huh? You don’t want anybody t’see you sick, or—”

Steve smiles. Wraps the blanket a little tighter around himself. “Got bad kind of suddenly. I just reacted, y’know? I was driving, I went past here, I stopped. Just wanted to lie down.”

His voice has been fading steadily; and by the end it’s barely there. And, shit. Holy shit, Steve has _malaria_ , and Danny’s keeping him awake. Oops. He loves winding Steve up— it’s literally one of his most cherished pasttimes— but maybe not tonight.

“Okay,” he murmurs, raising both hands. Meeting Steve’s eyes, now, gently. “I’m done. But you get that I’m staying tonight, yeah?”

“Kinda figured,” Steve whispers.

“Okay. We’re good for now then, huh? Go to sleep. Lie down, try to sleep.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. Moving almost clumsily, he swings his legs onto the bed and curls up on his side, disappearing underneath the pile of blankets.

It takes just about all the energy Danny’s got left to stand up and turn off the lights.

*

Danny wakes, unfortunately, to a sound every parent has woken to at least once.

It’s a cough, then a retch, then a _splat_.

He groans.

His sleep hadn’t been deep, so there’s no disorientation upon waking. No question of why he’s in a motel bed (with no blankets).

He’s in this bed, long story short, because Steve’s having a malaria flare up— which, yes, is a thing, and, apparently, has vomiting as one of its symptoms.

“You good?” Danny asks, into the darkness. No response. “Steve?”

Still nothing. All he heard was the puking, no body hitting the floor— then again, that could just mean Steve threw up while still in bed—

Ugh.

Either way, this probably requires his attention.

Danny flicks on the bedside lamp, which somehow adds ten times more shadows than it does light.

Steve’s on his feet. Halfway between his bed and the bathroom (which isn’t a long distance), but making no further moves.

And he looks— surprised. Surprised and spooked and actually a little upset, though maybe that’s just a grimace from the nausea. Or maybe it’s both. He’s standing in front of a puddle of puke, with more of it splashed down his front.

“Oh,” Danny says. But it’s just a buffer while his brain switches from partner mode to dad mode, without him even asking it to. “That’s okay, babe,” he adds, voice softer now. “I’ve seen worse. Let’s get you to the toilet, huh?”

While speaking he’s been getting to his feet, and to Steve’s side; the man himself still looks too shocked (and maybe too dizzy) to move on his own, so Danny takes his elbow and guides him around the mess, into the bathroom. “That’s okay,” he murmurs, again, helping him kneel. Immediately Steve lurches over the bowl and starts heaving, though it’s dry, maybe just the next wave’s precursor.

“Okay. Um. You okay?” It’s a stupid question, but hopefully Steve hears the real meaning: do you want me here for this? He must hear. Because he waves vaguely with one hand, before he goes back to gripping the sides of a toilet like a life preserver (which might be funny if it weren’t so pathetic, and, frankly, so gross).

Danny pats him on the back. Pushes himself upright and goes back out to the main room; and is rudely reminded of what task awaits him there.

Again: ugh.

Grace was never much of a puker; and now that she’s older, he’d thought maybe he wouldn’t have to ever do this again.

Ha! Ha ha ha.

There’s nothing for it but to use the bath towels, though Danny plans to just trash them before they leave, no matter what fees Steve might incur. Serves him right for holing up in a freaking motel for something like this. He couldn’t stay with Doris, fine. But any sane man would’ve gone to stay with his partner, or his girlfriend, or, y’know—

The fucking hospital.

Goddamn.

Danny ducks back into the bathroom for the towels; unfortunately it’s just in time for Steve’s second round. Which is— loud. And _strenuous_. At least it’s (mostly) going in the toilet this time.

Danny lets him be; grabs the towels and does what he can.

By the time he heads back in to wash his hands, Steve’s finished— or at least getting a respite. He’s draped over the toilet, still but for his ragged breathing. So once Danny feels a bit cleaner, he sits down on the bathtub. Gives in, briefly, to the parental impulse of rubbing Steve’s back, because what’s Steve gonna do about it anyway?

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so shitty. Huh?” He sighs. “You’ll feel better soon. You’ll be your regular irritating self, really soon.”

And maybe he imagines it, but he thinks Steve untenses, just a little bit, at that.

“Okay. You done? You wanna go lie down? Though, I warn you, it don’t smell any better out there.”

Steve actually moves a bit now, lolling his head to the other side to meet Danny’s eyes. “Knew ’d en’ up puki’,” he rasps. “Shoulda jus’— slep’ in th’ tub— ’m sorry, Danno—”

“Stop it. That’s not how I meant it. You’re sick, huh?” He’s rubbing Steve’s back again. “Listen, if you were drunk, I would one hundred percent have left it for you to clean. But you’re sick. You couldn’t help it. Okay?”

Steve shuts his eyes, and nods just a little.

“Okay. I’m right outside if you need me, huh?”

He leaves Steve alone, then. Lies down on his blanket-less bed and considers sleeping— but doesn’t consider it too seriously. Steve’s pretty damn sick. Even if Danny’s offering privacy, he should still keep watch.

So he lies awake. Over some untold span of time, he listens to Steve trudge through three or four more bouts; then, just as dawn is peeking through the edges of the curtains, he hears the shower turn on.

A few minutes later Steve stumbles out. He’s wet-haired, wearing nothing but boxers, and shivering visibly as he crawls back under the blankets.

“Better?” Danny prompts. Steve’s responding grunt doesn’t sound very confident, so he gets the little wastebasket from beside the desk and sets it on the floor by the bed. Since he’s there anyway, he feels Steve’s forehead. “You’re burning up, babe,” he sighs, and pulls his hand away.

“’ll break soon,” Steve whispers. “Wors’— worst doesn’ last.”

“You sure about that? ER’s an option, y’know. Nice bag of fluids. Could even throw in something for the puking, I bet. Huh?”

“Drugs’ll do it.” He sniffles, tugs the blankets higher. “G’tt’be patient, Danno.”

“Patient. Gotta be patient, he says. Okay. Well.” Danny sighs. “If we’re riding it out here, ‘m going out for supplies. You gonna be alive when I get back?

“Mm-hm.”

“There gonna be more throw-up on the carpet, when I get back?”

“’s nothin’ left,” Steve whispers, and then he burrows completely.

So, sleep-deprived and reeking like sickroom, Danny heads to the local Wal-Mart.

Oh, Wal-Mart. Pretty much the same here as is anywhere. He actually doesn’t feel like he stands out much, as he shuffles down the aisles, stocking up. First stop, groceries. He gets Gatorade and crackers, and protein bars for himself as an afterthought. In the pharmacy he grabs some Advil and Emetrol. Then he swings by men’s clothing for a cheap pair of sweatpants— and a four-pack of undershirts, because. Better to be prepared.

When he gets back Steve is indeed alive; and there is indeed no more mess on the carpet. Steve seems to be dozing, in fact. But he wakes to the sound of the door opening, and Danny seizes the opportunity to get him into a clean shirt and to make him take the meds he bought. He takes another malaria pill, as well. Then he goes back to bed.

He sleeps just about the whole day. Wakes around 11:00 to drink some more Gatorade, then a few times thereafter to puke it back up. But after this he rests without interruption. And around 5:00 in the afternoon he wakes naturally, and has more Gatorade and some crackers, all of which stays down.

The headache’s gone too, or so he says. So they find a not-too-shitty movie on the motel TV, and watch in comfortable silence.

Danny doesn’t realize that he’s fallen asleep, until he wakes to a clatter. Rubs his eyes and sits up to see Steve barely keeping his balance as he wrestles himself into Wal-Mart sweatpants. Danny huffs, thinks about rolling back over. Then he catches sight of Steve’s hand, bracing on the table; and if Danny thought he was shivering before, now he’s _quaking_. “You need a hand?”

Steve grunts. Danny takes it as a _no_.

“How you feelin’?”

“Lil’ better.”

“Yeah? You’re— kinda shaky.”

Steve shrugs. He’s got the sweats on, now, along with what seems to be a fresh undershirt (this suspicion’s confirmed when Danny spies the original crumpled up nearby).

“You get sick again?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

“Sweated through it.”

“Yeah, you’re— soaked. ‘less you showered again?”

“It’s a good s-sign,” Steve replies, though he sounds less than authoritative as he speaks through chattering teeth.

“Good sign?”

“Fever’s breaking. ‘s how it goes. S-sweats, chills— means the w-worst is over.”

“Right,” Danny mutters, because that still sounds pretty damn miserable. But, if Steve thinks so, great.

Danny takes a few minutes to look after his own needs, then; he uses the bathroom, washes his face, eats two protein bars and some of Steve’s crackers. Not exactly his ideal Saturday dinner, but, c’est la vie. His pathetic meal thus ended, he lies back on his bed and considers the man curled up on the other one.

 _Pitiful_ isn’t an easy word to apply to Steven McGarrett. But, drenched in sweat, shivering hard— holed up in a motel room because he’d rather do that than show weakness to his own mother—

Suddenly the word’s not that far of a stretch.

Especially with the Doris thing. Danny doesn’t know her well now; and of course he didn’t know her at all, when Steve was a kid. Apparently she wasn’t one to combat upsets with affection. (Or, if she was, Steve’s not keen to accept affection from a woman who faked her death for twenty years.)

Damn. Sometimes a guy just needs a cuddle, huh? Some physical comfort (and maybe some extra body heat). And Steve’s gross right now, there’s no point in denying it, but he’s also not contagious.

And he’s Danny’s partner. Probably (definitely) Danny’s best friend.

“C’mere,” Danny grunts. Surprisingly, Steve obeys him at once. He crawls out of his bed and into Danny’s, taking the blankets all with him and setting them up in a makeshift nest. This done, he rests his head on Danny’s shoulder.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not. Steve’s too warm; he’s shaking; he’s damp-bordering-on-wet; and, frankly, he needs that other shower.

But Danny lets on to none of this, of course.

He just lets Steve slump against him, greedy for warmth and reassurance; and as night falls they ease slowly down the mattress and fall asleep side by side.

*

Danny wakes to two very important understandings. First, he himself is fucking starving. And second, Steve has slept through the night, and is currently sprawled out like a starfish instead of huddled up in a feverish ball.

That’s got to be good news, right?

He doesn’t wake Steve directly, but he gets up and fumbles around the room and bathroom until he hears Steve stir.

Danny sits down. Steve sits up. “Good morning,” Danny offers; then, with a woozy groan, Steve claps one hand to his eyes.

“Take it slow, huh?” Danny coaches. Thinks about patting him on the back again, but doesn’t.

“Nn. ‘m fine,” Steve grunts. “Low blood sugar.”

“Oh, well, you’re fighting fit, then.”

Steve smirks, pulling his hand away. The food is on the nightstand— on Danny’s side of the bed— but rather than ask him to pass something over like a normal human being, Steve leans right across Danny’s lap. Takes his time grabbing a bottle of Gatorade and a sleeve of crackers.

Danny only just stops himself from pushing Steve off; he feels free to voice a complaint, though. “Babe,” he groans. “Jesus. That breath could be weaponized.”

“Well, did you buy me a toothbrush?” Steve asks, as he settles back.

“I did not.”

“Then you don’t get to complain.”

Danny scoffs aloud, and lies back down. Watches Steve eat, from the corner of his eye. The guy more or less chugs the Gatorade, but the caution with which he approaches the crackers suggests a lingering queasiness. Better, but maybe not great, then.

Danny actually does pat him on the back this time, earning him a goofy smile.

When Steve’s finished eating, he gets to his feet and stretches, hugely, for a solid minute. Danny sits back up, undoes a few kinks of his own.

“Oof,” Steve says, at one point. “I think I’ll shower again.”

“You booked ‘til today, or ‘til tomorrow?”

“Today,” Steve replies. Danny shakes his head.

“Then it’s gotta be checkout soon, anyway. C’mon. Let’s go shower in a real shower. Y’know. One that hasn’t been used by a thousand people, huh?”

But clearly Danny’s meaning is lost on Steve— Steve, who’s feeling better, but who is still feeling too lousy to be around his mom.

“Crash with me, I meant,” Danny clarifies. “Got a real house, now, might as well use it. C’mon. Rest up today, tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine for tomorrow.”

“You won’t be. You won’t be, because if you go to work tomorrow, I will shoot you in both kneecaps.”

Steve’s face works a little at that; Danny gets the impression that he’s hiding a smile.

“I said what I said!” Danny yelps. “Tomorrow we’re taking off; Tuesday we’ll play it by ear. Sit down and drink another drink while I get us together.”

Steve pulls a face, but complies. He gets down another Gatorade while Danny does his best to tidy, and to gather up anything worth taking with them— which doesn’t amount to much. Various meds and two unused undershirts, plus phones, keys, wallets. (These he times for while Steve is in the bathroom peeing, so he can leave all the cash in the guy’s wallet as a tip. It’s three twenties, which is maybe just _barely_ enough.)

He’s ready to go by the time Steve comes out, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. He smiles as he catches Danny’s gaze. “Ready when you are,” he reports; his voice is still hoarse, but it’s steady.

“You good to drive the truck?”

“Mm-hm.”

“But no pit stops. Huh? I got half a mind to take your wallet with me, so you’ve gotta go the right place.”

“Man, to be honest, I want a shower so bad, I _will_ race you back to your place.”

“Well don’t drive like an asshole, either,” Danny moans, with a pleading gesture. “You c’n have first shower either way. Promise.”

“Noted,” Steve replies. God. It’s been less than 36 hours, since he puked his guts up all over this ugly geometric carpet. And he still looks worn-out, but he also looks— okay?

He actually looks like he’s got a little energy back. And suddenly Danny has the sneaking feeling that convincing Steve to rest will be pretty much the same as convincing a toddler to do so. Luckily he has some experience with this. If nothing else, he can issue a knot-tying challenge, or something else SEALish but stationary.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here.” Danny opens the door, as Steve comes to his side. Then glances back at the room. For a moment Danny think he’ll give it a salute (or alternatively, a salute of the single-finger variety).

He doesn’t. It’s just a glance; then he turns back to Danny and grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Born out of a desire to see this kind of scene between the boys as they were in early seasons :) I've done a terrible job spacing out characters within this series, but... perhaps you all will forgive me? Because I have brought more sick Steve?


	7. Breakdown (Danny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first Danny's just angry; but the anger doesn't last. Tag to 1x18 (Matty's episode).

Despite how very many tears he’s shed these past twelve months— and seriously, it’s been a lot— Danny doesn’t cry about Matty. At least, not that night; not the next day, either. He doesn’t even want to. All he really wants to do is pummel some drywall until his knuckles bleed and blacken.

He doesn’t do that, either. But he carries that urge, like a backpack full of bricks, as he staggers his way through the following days. The anger is constant, and it’s _cold_. His mind is frozen in the instant that he decided not to shoot; in the instant Matty decided to run in the first place. Anger for his own cowardice as much as for Matty’s betrayal.

But slowly the anger weakens, dampens, until he wants to cry just as much as he wants to punch something; and then, eventually, the anger’s gone altogether and it’s just the sorrow. Which, hey, that’s probably a sign of maturity, right? Only, it doesn’t feel that way: it feels sloppy and little-kid-ish, like when it finally happens it’s going to involve hiccupping and glubbing and maybe even some snot bubbles. Like a toddler with a missing teddy bear.

Maybe that’s why he tamps down on it. Maybe that’s why he puts it off for as long as he can manage: because when it finally happens it’s going to be _ugly_.

Maybe he puts it off a little too long.

Because when it does happen, it happens with all the grace of a shaken beer bottle or a sudden tug-of-war victory, which is to say, no grace at all.

It’s late afternoon-ish. Maybe technically evening by now. And they just finished delivering a kidnapping victim back to his parents— and his older brother— who despite being about sixteen and way too cool for school had sobbed even harder than their mother when the moment came.

And it hadn’t even been his fault.

Danny himself had told the brother that a dozen times today.

He wouldn’t have had a single chance of stopping the kidnappers if he had been there; people, sometimes, just suck.

But the kid had blamed himself anyway. And at their little reunion he’d hugged his brother and wept apologies; and Danny had gotten in his car and driven away. Hadn’t even waited for Steve. Had left him to get a ride back with the cousins, and normally Danny knew he’d take some shit for that, but not today.

Apparently he’s so close to the edge that even those around him can feel it.

So maybe it’s not a surprise, when his eyes go blurry. Maybe it’s not a surprise when it escalates within seconds, and he bows his head and rests his palms flat on the viewscreen.

And it’s not a surprise, either, to feel a hand resting gently on his back.

“Danny, are you hurt?”

Danny shakes his head.

“Okay. Okay.” Chin starts rubbing his back, starts shushing quietly. “We’ve got you, brah.”

It’s not a quiet cry. He didn’t think it would be. It’s a shuddery, shoulder-shaking jag that makes his stomach cramp and his nose run, within the first minute.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Jesus,” Danny blubbers. Chin’s half-hugging him now, murmuring words of comfort, and acceptance. Kono’s here too. She pushes a tissue between his fingers, and he fumbles to wipe his nose.

And even though they’re both there, Danny reaches out for Steve. Eyes closed, body blind, he reaches out into the ether and somehow comes to sense his partner, not touching, but lingering nearby.

And okay. He doesn’t feel better— this doesn’t feel better— but it does feel kind of good. Chin’s arm is crooked through his now. Kono’s head is on his shoulder and Steve’s warmth is like a wall at his back, propping him upright.

So he just sort of lets it happen. Lets all the grief and guilt and fury gush out of him like a fire hydrant in July, as he bawls, and mewls, and weeps apologies of his own. And when all of that’s too open, and he needs to close back up, he pivots on the spot and buries himself in Chin’s arms.

Chin holds him, gently. Kono hugs him from behind and Steve gets a hand on the back of his neck and doesn’t squeeze but doesn’t pull away either, even though it’s solid minutes before he quiets.

“I have to wash my face,” Danny gets out, eventually. The tears are still coming but he’s warm and safe and a little too comfortable. If he doesn’t pull away now, he’ll cry all night.

Chin and Kono let him go. He stumbles to the bathroom, still more than half senseless; once at the sink he washes his face and drinks from the tap, splashing his shirt in the process but hey, it was already wet anyway.

The water’s grounding, and it calms him further. It cleans away the last of the tears, and the last of his urges he feels to _sob_ , leaving him with just the breathless grief. Just an empty-lunged, loose-fingered sadness.

They give him a few minutes before sending a delegate in after him; this he expects. What he’s a little surprised by is that it’s Steve, not Chin, who’s been sent.

Steve looks a little surprised too. He looks Danny over, top to bottom, twice; then he uncrosses his arms with a sigh.

“Hey, Danno— see how you’re pausing when you inhale? You have to pause when you exhale, too.”

“Wha’?”

“Like— try to follow how I’m breathing. Trust me,” Steve adds, because Danny must give him some sort of look. He steps a little closer and narrates aloud as he breathes in, holds it, breathes out, holds that too. It takes a few tries but eventually Danny follows.

And it helps. It does. In under a minute Danny feels himself calming, tangibly; and when they break off he leans against the sink and glowers. “They teach you that in the army?”

For this time— and maybe this time only— that gets him a smile instead of a correction. “Yeah,” Steve agrees, and leans against the sink besides him.

Danny hugs himself around the waist, and just breathes. He’s panting a little, which seems ironic, but it doesn’t feel desperate: even though he’s not focusing on it any longer, he’s still getting the exact right amount of air.

“I knew that was coming,” he says, after a minute or two of this. “I just didn’t know it was comin’ in the middle of the bullpen.”

Steve snorts, appreciatively. “I guess you don’t always get a say, when it’s that bad.”

It’s hard to picture Steve shedding a tear, let alone having a huge snotty breakdown, without first obtaining written permission from a five-star general. But rather than argue, Danny just nods.

More silence. Danny’s body feels twisted and limp as a wrung-out washcloth, and his mind isn’t faring much better. He needs sleep. Needs a tall glass of water— from the Brita, please, not the tap— and then he needs to curl up and rest his aching eyes.

“Do you think I’ll find him?” Danny whispers.

“Mm?”

“Do you think I’ll find Matty? Honestly.”

Steve sighs. And fuck, does he have to be so fucking _honest_ all the fucking time? “I think we’ll do whatever we can to help you,” he responds, carefully. “And, I think the world’s only so small, these days.”

“Mm,” Danny hums, and he sighs too. His chest hitches a little, not because he’s crying again but because his lungs themselves are sort of fragile at the moment. Overreactive.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Danny nods.

“Even though you abandoned me earlier? And Chin wouldn’t let me drive, _and_ Kono wouldn’t let me have shotgun?”

Danny smiles. He’s too damn tired to issue any jabs in return, but it’s an offer of normalcy, and he appreciates it. He appreciates it even more when Steve slings an arm around his shoulders.

“C’mon, Danno,” he murmurs. “’m gonna take you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so much in the way of plot but I suppose I've chosen to lean into my choice of titles 😂 Just gonna go for it and post a bunch of boys crying, even though I, for once, am in a very good mood since yesterday ✊🏻


	8. Hands (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junior helps Steve clean up, while Danny's in surgery. Missing scene for 10x22.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did NOT feel like watching the finale again, but I skimmed through it enough to figure out where to fit this episode lol. So, for context: when we see Steve in the chapel, praying, his hands are still bloody. That's when he talks to Lincoln, and sends him and Quinn off to do stuff (?) with the cipher. Anyway, next time we see Steve, he's in the waiting room with the rest of the team, and his hands are clean. I KNOW that he probably got himself washed up because he's a big independent man, but. I just really prefer the thought of somebody being with him in that moment, instead 😭

He finds Steve in the chapel, just as Cole had told him; though, honestly, he wouldn’t have needed the hint. He knows his commander. Knows that he is a man of faith, or, at the very least a man who believes. A man who prays.

He’s seen this, before. It took a while for him to recognize, but now he knows that when they sit on the sand, with their feet in the water, and Steve closes his eyes— he’s praying. No words, no movements; but he is.

And he’s praying now. But this time he looks the part: hunched forward, whispering aloud. His hands, still rusty with Danny’s blood, are clenched in perfect Sunday-school formation.

“Commander.”

The words stop dead, and Steve snaps upright; he’s not crying now, but it’s clear from the inflammation around his eyes that he has been.

“Nothing new,” Junior says, hurriedly, and all at once finds himself questioning the decision to come up here without an update. “I just thought I’d check on you.” He contemplates sitting at arm’s length, or even one pew behind, but in the end he settles at Steve’s side. Not touching, but close enough to do so.

“Quinn went with Cole?” Steve sounds oddly absent.

“Fought it, but yeah.”

The commander snorts. His hands are still together, though looser now; slowly he lowers them into his lap.

“Let me help you wash up,” Junior says, after a moment’s pause. He’d been planning to offer a cup of water or coffee or something, but the grizzly stains on the commander’s skin changed his priorities.

There’s no reply.

“He’ll be out of surgery before too long. You should be cleaner before you go sit with him.”

Still no verbal response, but Steve sniffs, quietly.

“And,” Junior adds, risking it— risking a hand on his back, too— “I’m not saying you have to come down with us, if you feel better being up here. But, you could. If you wanted to.”

There’s another lengthy pause. Then, with no more prompting needed, Steve lurches to his feet.

Junior stands too. Gets a hand on his commander’s back again and steers him out of the chapel, down a hallway, and into the first bathroom they come to. It’s a one-person bathroom, but there’s no wait. They’re in a less-traveled part of the hospital, which Junior’s glad of, for multiple reasons.

His hand is still resting between Steve’s shoulder blades. He rubs a little before pulling away, which he wouldn’t usually do, but, hey. “You got spare clothes in the truck?”

“Don’t bother,” Steve croaks. “Just— give me a minute.” And the way he says it makes it clear: he’s not just trying to save Junior a trip out to the parking lot. Now that they’re in the same place, they’re going to stay in the same place.

It’s a sentiment that Junior hears echoed in the absence of a turning lock.

And so he doesn’t hesitate to let himself in, when he feels Steve’s minute has run out. For one thing, there’s been no sounds of washing-up. All there’s been is the uninterrupted flow of a tap, and underneath, something that might be vomiting but also might be violent weeping.

So he slips inside, locks the door now that they’re both in there. Assesses the scene: it seems the commander managed to do no more than wet his hands before splattering the sink with black coffee puke, only slightly thicker than the pink-tinged water around it. And now he’s just staring. Bobbing on nearly-useless knees, kept upright only by the deathgrip he has on the sides of the sink.

And if Junior’d read the signals wrong, Steve would have reacted by now. So he keeps down his current path, and eases the commander away from the sink until he’s backed up enough to lean against the wall.

Steve does so, eyes closed.

And Junior realizes: Danny might be in God’s hands now, but Steve? Steve’s put himself in Junior’s. If only just for a moment.

So he lingers, until he’s sure the man will stay upright. Then he turns back towards the sink, cleans it up, cleans himself up, then wets a massive fistful of paper towels. It’s slow going, cleaning hours-old blood. No: it’d be slow going under running water, but it’s nothing short of _sluggish_ , the way they’re doing it instead.

But Junior finishes, eventually. Gets all the blood off Steve’s hands, and arms, and neck; even manages to get a little of it off his clothes, though not enough to make a difference. And Steve just lets him. Just stands, passive, unmoving until the moment that Junior presses a length of toilet paper into his newly-clean hands. (He hasn’t cried again. But his nose, already runny from the earlier tears, has been spouting like a faucet since he’d gotten sick.)

Even as small a movement as blowing his nose seems to rouse him. Seconds later he’s taken his weight off the wall, and seconds after that he steps forward of his own accord to throw the soiled wad in the trashcan. Then he washes his hands a few more times. Rinses his mouth out, splashes water on his face, then stands back from the sink.

“We don’t have to go down yet,” Junior promises, quietly. “We all have our phones. They’ll call, if anything. Do you— want a minute alone? Or, we could go back and sit—?”

“We should go downstairs.” Steve winces as he clears his throat, but from there his expression stays even. “We should be together, when they finish.”

Junior nods. He’s not about to deny his commander any form of comfort at the moment; though privately he wonders if Steve could use another minute for just the two of them.

Junior wonders this _so_ privately that he himself barely hears it. But Steve seems to read it on him anyway, because he offers a tired smile. “Maybe we’ll take the stairs?” he mutters.

Three or four floors down. If they walk like civilized humans— as Danny would say— that’ll give them that extra minute.

So Junior nods. Rests his hand on the commander’s back again, and leaves it there as they step out into the hallway.


	9. Overpass (Jerry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry helps a stranger. Steve helps Jerry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for major suicidal ideation... please look after yourself and skip if you need to! I will say that everybody is "all right" in the end.

The drive back from Waiahole wouldn’t be long, as a straight shoot; but there’s no such thing as a straight shoot through a forest reserve. Including the traffic they’ll hit in Honolulu, this’ll be about an hour’s drive.

And, ten minutes in, Steve is already beyond capacity for Jerry-conversation.

He likes the guy. He does. It took a while, but by now Jerry has transitioned from Chin’s heavy, hirsute, probably autistic childhood friend to… well. Five-0’s heavy, hirsute, probably autistic official consultant.

And yeah, official ohana, as well.

That doesn’t mean that Steve wants to hear anything else about what’s really in the secret chamber behind Mount Rushmore. Read the room, Jerry—

Oh right. That’s not really something Jerry does.

So, God forgive him, Steve does what he doesn’t like to do to Jerry— or anyone else— and stops listening. Gives his attention to the winding road, and the trees surrounding it. And honestly he’s not even sure that Jerry notices, because he keeps talking anyway; his affable tenor voice rises and falls like the hills around them as he expounds and theorizes.

The sounds, Steve still hears; their meaning, not so much.

It’s been a long day. They’ve been on the move since before sunrise, so even though it’s only mid-afternoon now, Steve’s already kind of wiped. Wiped, and hugely grateful that they’ve finally wrapped the case. Time to rest— or, apparently, time to monologue about what’s really in the Hall of Records.

Yup. Jerry’s still talking. They’re out of the forest reserve, hooking up with the H-3, and Jerry’s _still_ talking. And it looks like there’s already traffic.

Steve very nearly sighs.

And that, of course, is when the dispatch line crackles to life.

Steve slaps it on; responds with his name and location, even though they can see GPS for the truck.

“On the H-3, moving back towards the city?” dispatch prompts, and Steve confirms. Wonders if they’ll ask him to hurry up back to Honolulu, or the take the next exit and head to a case on the opposite side of the island. No matter, he’s ready for anything.

Though, it surprises him a bit, when he’s directed only about a mile down the highway.

There, bystanders have called in a man on the edge of the overpass— who says he’s jumping. Maybe not their wheelhouse, but they’re the closest car to the scene.

Dispatch says this like Steve might argue, but how the hell could he? He puts on the lights, fights through traffic as quickly as he can.

It’s quickly clear that the traffic’s related; Steve sees the knot of parked cars full seconds before he sees the human figure. But once they round the bend he’s impossible to miss. A concrete barrier, less than a meter high, separates this span of roadway from a dizzying plunge to the forest below; the man stands atop this, heads taller than the people who have gathered nearby.

Inches from oblivion.

As he gets the truck in park and hurdles out, Steve notes absently that his heart is already pounding. There’s not much he hasn’t been trained for; but this is definitely on that list. Shit, he’d be more qualified to start directing cars than he is to talk somebody off a literal ledge.

Still he’s got to try.

The small group of bystanders who’ve gathered defer to Steve instantly, stepping farther, giving respectful distance. Relieved, most likely, that the authorities are here.

Good people, _arbitrary_ people.

God, he hopes they won’t have to watch a man die today.

He’s close enough to be heard above the wind, now. “Sir?” he calls. “My name is Steve McGarrett. Can I step closer?”

The man, maybe a little younger than he is, glances down; then his head jerks right back up again. “I don’t want to talk to the police.”

An instinctive explanation of how Five-0 differs died on Steve’s lips; the guy saw him drive up with lights flashing, after all. “Whatever’s happening, I’m just here to help.”

The man is shaking his head now. Add that to the tremor in his knees, and even though his arms are outstretched, Steve sees an honest possibility of him falling before he ever has the chance to jump.

“Can you tell me your name? Even if that’s all, can you tell me that?”

More head shaking. Already-frantic eyes are widening by the second, and something as heavy and as cold as ice settles in Steve’s stomach. He’s trying, but—

He actually might not be able to do this.

Okay. Second plan, then: keep the guy focused on him long enough for someone actually qualified to get there. Or Chin. Or Lou. Pretty much anyone else would do better than he’s doing. Now they’ve just got to get here—

From a few steps back, Steve feels Jerry approaching. Perfect. He can get the message out, summon somebody else while Steve keeps the guy engaged—

But instead of stopping at Steve’s side, Jerry steps in front of him. Raises his hands to waist-level, in a placating sort of pose. “Um,” he opens. “Hey.”

“I don’t wanna talk to the police,” the guy repeats, snapping now.

“I’m not the police,” Jerry replies, evenly. “Look at me, I’m not. I do some, like, IT stuff for them. Is why I was in the car.” Steve has shifted position well enough to see them both now; to see Jerry smiling with warmth and worry. “To tell you the truth? Until very recently I was a delivery guy for a shrimp truck.” He pauses long enough to let this sink in, then adds, “can I please come over there?”

There’s another pause; then, a tiny nod.

“Cool.” Jerry puts his hands down; then, very slowly, walks to the barrier and perches on the edge of it.

The guy’s just staring now. So is Steve; so is everyone else behind him. Jerry doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t even glance over as an ambulance arrives on scene; doesn’t seem to consider, even for an instant, handing the situation over to the EMTs instead.

“Anyway, I’m Jerry. Uh, Jerry Ortega.” He’s sat down a few feet away from the guy, far enough that they’ve still got to speak over the wind. So Steve hears, quite clearly, as Jerry smiles again and says, “thank you. For letting me come over. And, like, take your time. But when you’re ready, you could tell me your name.”

“I’m—” the guy stops to swallow. “I’m Ben.”

“Hey-o! Sorry. Not an appropriate time for a _hey-o_. Just. You’re Ben. I’m Jerry. If you’re around still later we should totally open an ice cream shop.”

This earns an look of slight bemusement; it’s not a happy expression, but it’s worlds better than the despair that it replaces.

Jerry seems to think so too. He spends a moment visibly settling in on the barrier: shimming a bit, crossing his legs at the ankles, and resting his hands at his sides.

Then he makes the mistake of glancing over the edge.

“Holy fuck, that’s really far,” Jerry sputters, hunching forward. “Shit. I’m not, like, afraid of heights, but— _whew_.” Nervous laughter, as he presses one hand to his belly; the other white-knuckles the edge of the barrier. “That just made my stomach like, not-so-happy.”

“You could leave,” Ben replies. “If you want.”

“Nah.” Jerry peels his hand away from his belly long enough to wave this away. “Listen, man, what I really want is for you to not be alone right now. Either way this ends, this is kind of a big moment in your life, right? You should have somebody with you. You’re just gonna have to forgive me if I blow chunks,” Jerry adds, earning him a tiny smile.

“I guess whatever you’re scared of has got to be pretty fucking scary,” Jerry says. “If you’re more scared of that than this.”

The smile vanishes. “I’m not scared.”

It’s easy to hear Jerry over the wind; Ben, not so much. Steve takes a step closer.

“You’re not scared?” Jerry echoes.

“I think I’m— I’m a hundred different things, but I’m not scared.”

“What are the hundred things you are, then?”

To this, he gets no reply.

“Okay. Well. I gotta tell you, _I’m_ scared.” Jerry’s shoulders creep a little higher, as he speaks. “Like. Here’s the thing. I’m really clumsy? And right now I can’t— I can’t get it out of my head, this image that, like— I’ll accidentally knock you over? And then you’ll fall and it’ll be my fault?” He chuckles. “I know I won’t, but. Sometimes I get these thoughts like that, and once they’re in your head, they’re hard to get out. You ever get thoughts like that?”

Timidly, Ben nods.

“I think it’s probably an anxiety thing, huh? Or maybe it’s normal. I don’t totally know what is and isn’t normal.”

“I don’t think it’s normal.”

“Yeah, maybe not. I definitely, like— anxiety is definitely a thing, in my life. If we’re bein’ honest, I’ve lost, like, whole years to it. Not every year, though. This one’s goin’ pretty good.”

It occurs to Steve that Jerry has started inching down the barrier. He speaks a little lower, now that he’s closer to Ben. “You realize, if you do this— you won’t get the chance. To get to a good one, I mean.”

Ben shivers. Wraps his arms instinctively around his waist, and Steve can’t help but wince at the effect it’ll have on his balance. Jerry sees it too.

“Listen, man,” he murmurs, barely audible now. “Can I have, like, five more minutes?”

Ben nods.

“Can you sit next to me?”

Another nod.

“You want a hand?”

“Yeah,” Ben whispers.

Jerry stands, extends a hand upwards— and guides Ben safely off the barrier. They stand together now, on solid asphalt.

And if Steve were over there? He’d seriously consider forcing the guy down to the ground, low enough to be sheltered entirely by the barrier. Or taking him, physically, to the ambulance. Maybe he even twitches, as he thinks about doing so, because Jerry waves him back.

And the sheer authority in his eyes— which Steve has seen before, but never in a situation as grave as this one— startles him into compliance.

Jerry doesn’t knock Ben to the ground. Doesn’t take him to the ambulance by force.

Instead he helps him settle on the edge of the barrier and puts an arm around his back.

A few minutes pass this way. Steve can’t hear their conversation at all now; all he can do is watch, buzzing with both worry and hope. Ben’s got his head in his hands. Jerry’s rubbing his shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. And then—

Ben raises his head, drags the back of one wrist across his upper lip. Jerry climbs to his feet, extends his hand a second time.

Ben grasps it, stands; together they take three tentative steps, then the entire scene becomes a flurry of motion. EMTs rush to their side, as Jerry hugs Ben tightly. Someone applauds; somebody else silences them instantly.

It’s not a moment of joy.

But it’s not a moment of tragedy, either.

Then the EMTs are shepherding Ben into the ambulance, and bystanders are returning to their cars; Steve makes his way over to Jerry, who hasn’t moved an inch since relinquishing his charge.

“Who’d’ve thought you’d save the day by _not_ having a badge, huh?” Steve greets, with a smile.

Jerry doesn’t smile back. Gone is the composure he exuded only a moment ago; now his eyes are blank, his breaths coming rapid and shallow.

“Relax, Jer,” Steve coaxes. “It’s all right. Hey. You did it. Let’s get off the bridge, huh.” And he holds out a hand, offering to take Jerry’s. Jerry catches his arm, instead. Then he squeezes, and doesn’t stop squeezing, hard enough that Steve honestly wonders if he’ll see blood on his forearm when Jerry detaches.

Not that he’d blame him, of course. This is emotional shock if Steve’s ever seen it, and for a moment he wonders if he should make Jerry put his head between his knees.

“Jerry,” Steve murmurs, softer now. “Hey, can you walk?”

Jerry shuts his eyes, and nods a little.

“Okay. Good. We just need to walk to the truck, okay? Come on. I gotcha,” Steve adds, trying to get his arm around Jerry’s back. But Jerry won’t let go to allow it. “Okay,” Steve repeats, mostly to himself now, and leads Jerry carefully away.

He gets him to the truck. Gets him inside; gets the door closed behind him. Then Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and joins the trickling stream of cars making their way across the overpass.

The slow pace gives Steve a chance to keep an eye on Jerry. The first few glances show him stock-still, hugging himself around the belly; before long, though, he’s visibly shaking.

The best thing for it, Steve decides, is to get them back on solid ground. So he just drives; soon the traffic clears, and before long the roadway meets up with the mountain, and begins to dip towards sea level.

Jerry, when Steve glances over, is still trembling. Trembling, and utterly silent, and Steve wonders if he should try to get him to talk about it. Or, to talk at all. Hell, he could ramble about Mount Rushmore again, if he wanted; Steve would definitely listen this time.

In the end, Jerry breaks the silence himself— though it’s not in a way Steve expected.

“Um,” Jerry says, suddenly. “C’d’you pull over?”

His voice is strained, and tiny, and it’s not like Steve wouldn’t have listened anyway, but he does so now as quickly as he can. Luckily they’re out of the mountains. There’s plenty of shoulder to pull onto; so Steve does, then gets the truck in park.

Jerry puts his hand on the door handle— but doesn’t open it. Just sits, completely still but for the shivering. “Thought I was gonna—” he mutters, the last of his words cut off by an involuntary intake of breath. Tears well in his eyes.

Steve lays a hand on his knee, and squeezes gently. “‘s just the adrenaline, man. Ride it out, okay?”

Jerry nods, still nearly gasping.

“We’ll stay here a minute,” Steve continues, killing the engine. “Open the door anyway, get some air.”

With another clumsy nod, Jerry does so; the familiar scent of saltwater and car exhaust drifts inside the truck. Jerry swings sideways, sits with his legs dangling.

It’s a few minutes before Jerry turns around and closes the door; Steve’s insides twist at the sight of tears on his face. “You with me?” he asks, touching Jerry’s leg again.

“Yeah. Um. Do you have a tissue?”

“I— do not,” Steve says slowly, as he glances around the truck’s cab. “Sorry. I’ve got a full first aid kit, and, uh, I’ve definitely got some grenades in the trunk— oh, I have a napkin?”

“Too late,” Jerry laughs. Steve peers up in time to watch him mop his eyes and nose on the collar of his t-shirt.

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool. Won’t tell anyone you were unprepared for something.”

“Thanks. Hey, seriously: are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I don’t even know— I’m not even totally sure where that came from.”

“Nah, man, that was— I mean, anybody could get emotional over something like that. That was— a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Jerry gets out, before he’s overtaken by a huge, shaky sigh.

“I’ll drive you home?”

“Prob’bly should say no, and that I’m fine to go back to the palace.” Jerry closes his eyes for a moment. “But yeah. Wouldn’t mind— I dunno. Taking a shower and going to bed?”

“It’s like four o’clock.”

“I know,” Jerry laughs. Then suddenly he’s tearing up again. “But I think that was all the energy I had allotted to, like, the week.”

“C’mere,” Steve mutters, and reaches across the center console to give Jerry a fierce, if awkwardly-positioned, hug. Jerry hugs back, sniffling into Steve’s shoulder.

“You did really good, buddy.” Steve scratches Jerry’s back a few times. “Really good. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, commander,” Jerry mumbles, covering his face with one hand as they pull apart. “Um. Can I have that napkin now?”

They laugh. Steve passes it over and thinks about turning away, but in the end he just stares at the steering wheel. Watches, from the corner of his eye, as Jerry carefully blows his nose.

“Okay,” Jerry whispers, when he’s finished; then clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m okay to drive again.”

So Steve starts the truck, and pulls back onto the road.

It’s about half an hour to Chin’s place, where Jerry’s been staying. And yes, as expected, a lot of that is traffic. But even when they’re at a dead stop, Steve resists the urge to look over again; he gets the sense that Jerry’s piecing himself back together now, and might want privacy to do it. In fact he doesn’t look at Jerry again until they’ve reached their destination.

When he finally takes account, Jerry’s breathing is still congested, eyes still a little wet; but he looks calm, and he’s finally stopped shaking. It’s a relief, for more than one reason. There’s the obvious, of course; but also it seems like Steve could leave now and Jerry could manage on his own.

Steve _could_ leave. Jerry _could_ manage.

But as he watches his friend unbuckle himself and shift heavily in his seat, Steve remembers what Jerry told Ben, less than one hour before.

Steve wants to go home. Wants to shower and have a few drinks and maybe even order out for dinner.

But what he _really_ wants? Is for Jerry to not be alone right now.

“I could stick around, until Chin gets home?”

Jerry hasn’t gotten around to opening the door yet. He sighs, deeply and not quite steadily. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Steve answers, with all the warmth and sincerity he can muster. “Hang on.” And rather than wait for a further reply, Steve gets himself out of the driver’s seat then goes around and helps Jerry out of the truck. “Come on,” he coaxes, softly, guiding Jerry up the path to Chin’s front door.

“Sorry,” Jerry mumbles.

“Don’t be sorry. Hey, don’t be sorry! You saved somebody’s life today.” Steve rubs Jerry’s back, and smiles, though Jerry’s not looking. “You should have somebody with you.”

There’s a quiet jingling; Jerry’s hands are shaking again, too much to get the key in the lock. So Steve takes that over, too. Gets the door unlocked, then opened; then shepherds Jerry carefully inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just... have so many feelings about Jerry. And I know that that phrasing has come to be associated with fangirling and possibly superficial investment, but. Let me clarify. I have actual enduring emotions about Jerry Ortega. So, thank you for indulging me, my friends. If you are reading these words (and even if you aren't) I truly hope you're well.


	10. Sniffles (Steve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't call Danny when Catherine leaves him; Danny finds out anyway. Coda to 6x03.

The sun’s just setting when the name on his caller ID gives Danny a minor heart attack. Deb McGarrett—it’s not like they frequently chat. In the half-second it takes to swipe and answer Danny’s mind hones in on two main possibilities: one being that she’s taken a turn for the worst and wants his support when telling Steve.

Two being that it’s a hospital or something, calling from Deb’s phone.

But Deb answers cheerily, sounding well, and Danny goes a little faint with relief. Not much could have ruined a proposal as much as that kind of bad news.

“Hey,” Danny breathes, getting himself back together. He flops into a chair at his kitchen table. “Deb, what’s up? How are you?”

“Danno,” Deb greets. “I’m doin’ good, kid. You got a few minutes?”

“Sure, sure.”

And then Danny finds out that the proposal never had the chance to be ruined, anyway.

“How’d he sound?” Danny asks, once Deb’s told all she knows (which isn’t much).

Deb sighs. “You know our Stevie. Ninety percent stoicism, ten percent sniffles.”

It's such an accurate description of his friend that it makes Danny’s stomach hurt.

“Okay. I’m goin’ over there now, okay?

“Thanks, Danno,” Deb breathes. “I can be there in just about a day if I need to, so you let me know. But I figured he needed somebody right now.”

And there it is. He is definitely Steve McGarrett’s need-somebody-right-now guy; and he’s happy to be it.

So twenty minutes later he’s pulling into Steve’s driveway. And thirty seconds after that he is letting himself in through the front door, with a quiet greeintg. “Steve? Hey, it’s me.”

“Danny?” The reply comes from the opposite direction as expected, and Danny looks over to see Steve sitting on the stairs, maybe halfway up the bottom level. Weird, but— okay, fair. Danny can understand the urge to sit in strange, uncivilized places while dealing with strange, uncivilized feelings. “What are you doing here?”

“Deb called.”

“Deb called you?”

“Yeah, she was worried. She’s in, uh, Paris, I think she said, but I got the feeling if I didn’t pick up she was gonna hop the next plane.”

“She doesn’t need to do that.” Danny watches Steve willfully straighten his spine.

“Well, she’s not, now. I was, uh, closer than France.”

Steve blinks, lets himself slump a little again. “You didn’t have to, either.”

“Okay. Bye.”

He reaches toward the door— and locks it, and goes up and plops himself next to Steve. Steve drops his head into his hands. 

“So.”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Nothin’ really happened. We just sort of—ended.”

“And you didn’t actually—?”

“No. Never got there.” He shakes himself a little. “Damn it, Danny.”

“I know.” He honestly just wants to hug the stuffing out of him right this second, but Steve has guidelines, so he just slings an arm around his back. For now. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, jostling him a little. “What happened, babe? C’mon, talk it out.”

Steve sighs, so goddamn deeply it’s ten seconds or more before he’s finished exhaling. “Come home,” he starts, “and she’s on the porch. Bags are packed.”

“She say why?”

Steve nods, and eases back just a bit; his head’s still down, shoulders still rolled forward, but Danny can see his face now. He looks like crap.

“She said she feels—not needed.”

“Not needed?”

“Like she doesn’t have a purpose, when she’s here. And I—y’know, I get that. I get how important that is.”

“So where’s she goin’? That she feels like she’ll have one?”

“Nepal. Flying a helo as part of the relief efforts there.”

“And then?”

This just gets a shrug. “I told her—man, I told her I couldn’t wait anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t’a done that. But when—when she leaves, Danny, I— I dunno.”

“It hurts. Pretty bad, I know, babe.”

Then Steve sniffs, and makes that noise he does that sounds like swallowing half a pint of snot as quietly as possible. Danny glances over, sees moisture in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t do it anymore,” he mutters. “I just can’t. Is that— unfair?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not like this is the first time.”

“I just,” Steve chokes, “I said to her, you know, I said: you’ve got two places you could be. An’ you’re choosin’ the place I’m not. An’ that’s exactly what’s happening. And maybe it is unfair. I just don’t wanna build a life with somebody who— who’s not gonna prioritize that life?” He sighs. “That’s unfair, isn’t it?”

He’d already fielded that exact question; but Danny chooses not to point this out. Instead he jostles Steve lightly with the arm still around his back. “It is neither unfair nor unreasonable to choose your priorities based on who prioritizes you.”

“Maybe she would’ve come back. Maybe she will. But I— I guess, maybe, I have a—a little bit of a thing about—I dunno.”

“Abandonment? Did it honestly take you thirty-eight years to come to this understanding of yourself?”

That gets him a smile, but only a tiny one.

“So I told her I can’t wait for her anymore,” Steve continues, not replying directly. (Not that he needs to.) “She says—she says it’s not ‘cause she wants out of this thing we’ve got. And I believe her. But I cannot—I can’t—”

“I know. I hear ya.”

“I just want—I want—her to stay, y’know? I wanna wake up to her. I wanna be around her. That’d be enough for me. But it’s—not—enough—for her—?”

His face is twisted up now, back hitching beneath Danny’s arm; his fingers are pressed to the inner corners of his eyes like he can pinch off the tears.

Danny tips his head against Steve’s. “Hey. Hey, quit the tough guy act, okay? You got your heart broken real good, you’re allowed to cry about that.”

That gets a laugh, albeit a wet one. Then Steve pulls away, puts a hand up to block his face from view.

“Okay. You want me t’leave you alone? So you can get all loud and ugly with it?”

Another laugh, and a little sniffle. “Couldn’t do that if I tried, man.”

“Bullshit. Go take a shower, okay? It’s harder to hear yourself, you don’t feel so shy. Hey, I’ll be downstairs, come down when you’re ready. I’m not kidding,” he adds, when Steve doesn’t move. And to emphasize this, he whacks him on the leg.

Steve goes. Stands, and lumbers upstairs, and Danny does the courtesy of not watching him on the way.

Instead he goes into the kitchen; grabs a beer. He’s sitting at the table, drinking it slowly, when he hears footsteps coming back downstairs.

Steve shuffles into the kitchen, wet hair spiky, smelling like soap. His eyes are ever-so-slightly puffy. The overall effect is almost more endearing than Danny can stand, and he goes to Steve’s side and swoops him into a big bear hug. Steve returns it with a quiet sniffle.

“That help at all?”

“Yeah, it did.”

Danny gives one more squeeze before pulling away. “Okay. You want drinks? You want food? You gotta have something, babe,” he adds, as Steve shakes his head.

“’m really not hungry,” he mumbles. For emphasis, or maybe just for comfort, he presses a hand to his belly.

“Toast and eggs, then,” Danny replies. Because he knows his partner, thanks, and part of knowing his partner is knowing how to make him eat, even when he doesn’t want to.

Steve gives a small, conceding smile. “Could always have toast ‘n’ eggs.”

“This I know,” Danny teases, and nudges Steve towards the table.

Toast and eggs leads to a quick fruit salad, which leads to Steve announcing that his stomach feels up for a couple beers. Drinking leads, in turn, to a movie on the couch. But Steve makes it barely halfway before falling asleep, and Danny himself doesn’t make it much longer.

They wake to Steve’s phone ringing. Danny’s eyes slowly focus on the looping DVD menu, as Steve fishes for his phone then answers it. He smiles as he holds it to his ear.

“Hey, Deb. Yeah, he’s here. Yeah. We, um, I guess we fell asleep on the couch. What time is it there? Oh, jeez. Y’know I’m just realizing, I musta woke you up, when I called before.” He pauses. “I know you don’t mind. I’m just sayin’.”

Another pause, and Steve shifts comfortably on the couch; whether or not he means to, he ends up just at Danny’s side. “I’ll be all right,” he answers, settling heavily. “I know. No, but I will be. In a little while.”

Steve’s so close now that Danny catches snippets of Deb’s reply: something along the lines of _it’s okay if you’re not, call me whenever you need to_. That sort of thing. It makes Danny smile.

“I know,” Steve replies. “I know I got my best people lookin’ out for me, huh? Go. Enjoy the day, okay? I mean it. I’ll call you in the morning. My morning, y’know.” Then the smiles; it’s sad but so damn wide that it makes his eyes close. “Love you too, Deb,” he answers, then ends the call.

“I’m glad you know,” Danny muses, “that you got people. I’m glad you know that, huh? ‘cause you didn’t used to.”

Steve nods, and shimmies a little closer. “She’s seeing the Eifel tower today,” he says— a nonreply that makes Danny laugh and close the final inches of distance himself. A second later there’s the weight of Steve’s head on his shoulder.

“Okay. So,” Danny opens. “I’m not sayin’ we sleep here. I’m just sayin’, maybe, we don’t get up right this minute. Whaddya think?”

Steve’s reply is only a hum; but its meaning is pretty damn clear. So Danny tips his head to rest against his friend’s. “I gotcha,” he murmurs. “I’m stayin’ right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to admit this was just a quick fix-up of something just hanging on my harddrive... but I've got a (good?) reason? I just wanted to wrap up Weeptober before posting anything new, and I am just about ready to post a ~10k oneshot that I'm really, really proud of. So I hope you guys enjoyed this... but I also hope you're on the lookout for my next story later this weekend ;) (Sorry for the self-advertisement... I've just been working on it for a long time!)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading :)


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